Said and Unsaid
by Ellessaria
Summary: Arthur's journey to Avalon is painful in more ways than one. Already struggling to cope with his deadly wound, he also has to deal with the increasingly shocking confessions of his manservant... (Cover art by Wil1969).
1. The Nobleness of Knights

**As much I loved the final episode of **_**Merlin**_**, like others, I felt that it was too rushed. I loved all the scenes between our boys, but let's face it, they were few and far between. I've pretty much overdosed on Merlin fanfic in the last few weeks (I only discovered the series last month, so I was a bit behind), so my brain is probably fried, or at the very least overly stimulated. I've got loads of stories going through my head, but this first one is pulling at me the most. It's something you've probably read before, but this is my spin on things. More particularly, my spin on what happened on those two days that Merlin and Arthur made their painful journey toward Avalon. Because no way were they silent the whole time, and **_**no way**_** were those pitifully few scenes of conversations the **_**only**_** interaction our boys had.**

**I don't own Merlin. Which is a crying shame, if you ask me...**

_Said and Unsaid_

Arthur was pretty sure they'd only been riding for a few hours, but every thud of the horse's hooves seemed to echo with the painful throbbing in his chest, so every minute felt like an eternally _long_ time. Far too long. He'd heard snippets of softly spoken words between Merlin and Gaius as they were preparing to leave, and he seemed to recall a mention of '_two days' _being made. He still wasn't sure if Gaius had been referring to the length of the proposed journey, or the prognosis of Arthur's injury, but either way Arthur was fighting against the panic that was currently causing almost as much pain as the shard from Mordred's sword.

He wasn't exactly sure what it was that was causing his panic; in fact, he wasn't even sure that it _was_ panic, seeing as he'd never really experienced true panic in his entire life. He'd had his fair share of concerns, along with a healthy dose of fear every once in a while, but panic – _true_ panic – had never managed to get a firm hold on him. Leon, Gwen or Merlin had always turned his mood in the past.

But Leon and Gwen were back in Camelot. And Merlin was not... _Merlin_. Merlin was, according to Gaius, probably the most powerful sorcerer in the world.

Which didn't make _any_ sense at all.

Maybe he knew what was causing his panic after all. His manservant's tearful confession had been enough to stop the immense pressure he was feeling in his chest for several moments, long enough for him to suck in a much needed lungful of air. Which had been just as well, all things considered, because surely he'd stopped breathing when he'd seen that strangely beautiful dragon emerging from the embers of the campfire.

But no, he couldn't think about that right now. Not while they were dangerously out in the open, having left the relative safety of the forest behind them a few miles back. Although maybe he _should_ be thinking about that dragon, because it proved without a doubt that Merlin had _magic_, and according to Gaius, it was Merlin's skills as a sorcerer that were possibly the only thing that could save Arthur's life. It was a lot to take in, and frankly, more than he could cope with on top of the injury that was draining him to the point of collapsing.

Arthur was rudely pulled from his thoughts by the person who was so wholly occupying them. Merlin was muttering something about Saxons, and was in the process of covering him with a blanket. Arthur watched as his manservant moved quickly from his side and scanned the landscape before them. He gave a funny little jerk, which was vaguely familiar to Arthur for some reason, then turned to face the two riders who were within hailing distance. Then he raised his arms and started calling for help. Arthur watched with a detached sort of fascination as Merlin proceeded to be... Merlin. The Merlin that was full of stupid ideas, the Merlin that was impulsive, who didn't consider what he was doing or the consequences that would come from his actions. Only an idiot would draw an enemy closer.

Well, at least there was _one_ thing about his manservant that was still true.

The voices were muffled, but Arthur caught the thread of conversation and realised, with some shock, that the funny little jerk of the head from moments before that was so strangely _Merlin_, had been a spell of some sort, and was now providing evidence to the ridiculous tale that was being fed to the Saxons. As the enemy turned away, Merlin swiftly and silently spun around and quickly covered the hilt of Excalibur, which had been resting proudly next to Arthur's leg. Arthur was immediately visited with the notion that Merlin possessed more than his fair share of intelligence, and this seemed almost as disturbing as the fact that his manservant was a sorcerer.

Still reeling from this latest shock to his system, Arthur could only watch, slack-jawed, as the Saxons turned back towards them and began questioning Merlin further. Then one of the men strode forward, pushed his idiot manservant out of the way, and unerringly uncovered Excalibur. Arthur tried not to groan, though he was sure a fearful hiss may have escaped his lips. The game was up. Arthur knew it, and the Saxons knew it. Arthur shifted his gaze to Merlin, and saw something that would surely have caused him to gasp aloud, if only he'd had enough breath to do so.

It lasted only a second or two, but the scene that unfolded before him seemed to perversely move in slow motion, as if wanting to torture Arthur with the irreversible proof that the man who had served him for ten years was nothing but a liar. As the Saxons drew their swords in perfect unison, Merlin gave that annoyingly familiar little nod of his head again and raised his arms, his palms facing out as if warding off the blows that were surely coming his way. Only instead of a pair of swords arching gracefully through the air, it was their owners, who both gave startled cries as their bodies were hurled powerfully backwards, landing with sickening thuds long before Merlin returned his arms to his sides.

That his manservant had saved their lives went unnoticed. That Merlin – _Merlin_ – had behaved with utmost calm and precision was almost unnatural. It went against everything that Arthur had formerly believed about his bumbling and clumsy servant. The immediate threat had been removed, but instead of feeling relief, all Arthur could think of was how much betrayal he felt towards the man who was stood before him, and of all the things he could have said, of all the things he _should _have said, he said the one thing that had been crawling through his thoughts like a poisonous snake since the moment he'd seen a beautiful dragon emerge from the flames of a dying fire.

"You've lied to me all this time."

* * *

Merlin stiffened and turned away, unable to pull himself back from the anguish that those few little words caused him. Keeping his eyes averted, he quickly rolled up the blanket that had tumbled to the floor and replaced it in the saddle bag. Mounting his horse, he clicked his tongue to urge the beast into motion, moving his head slightly to make sure that Arthur was following him, but avoiding any eye contact with his friend.

Having Arthur see him perform magic in one of its more sinister forms didn't sit well with him. It didn't matter that Arthur had seen him call down lightening and defeat the Saxons; it didn't matter that Arthur had witnessed him commanding Aithusa to retreat. That was different. That was _Emrys_. Arthur had only seen a powerful sorcerer turn the battle into Camelot's favour. This time, he had seen _Merlin_. The magic was far less powerful than the magic that he'd used to win the battle at Camlann, but it was infinitely more damaging to the friendship that Merlin had always clung to so strongly.

Depression was sitting heavily upon him, and it wasn't only because of the almost crippling fear that he wouldn't be able to save Arthur as he'd so often done in the past. He'd never been comfortable with killing people, and knew that he never would. He'd been running purely on magic and adrenaline ever since he'd left the Crystal Cave, but now the past twenty four hours were catching up with him, and he felt the weight of the heavy loss of life from the previous day's events. The nervous energy that had enabled him to carry Arthur to safety, and to confess his double life to his king, was finally gone. Shock and grief were warring within him, tying his stomach into knots and making him feel nauseous. Then there was the regret, whipping at him mercilessly as he wished that he'd confessed at the start, all those years ago, when Arthur wouldn't have felt so betrayed. Or wished that he hadn't confessed at all, so at least Arthur would have a friend he felt he could trust in what would possibly be his last few hours of life.

"Who else knew you were a sorcerer?"

Merlin jumped at the softly spoken question, and pulled his horse to a stop. _Were they talking now? Good. Talking was good_. He chanced a quick look at the king as he became level with him, and swallowed a few times to moisten his mouth.

"Gaius."

An ill-disguised snort of contempt.

"_Apart_ from Gaius."

"Not many, and most of those were magically inclined."

"Nobody I knew, then," Arthur said quietly, almost to himself.

Merlin was tempted – _horribly_ tempted – to say nothing, but having finally confessed the truth about himself, he knew that he could hold nothing more back from his friend.

"Lancelot knew," he whispered.

"Lancelot." Disbelief echoed in the word. And more betrayal.

"Yes. He knew," he said firmly, bringing his gaze fully to Arthur's face, the memory of Lancelot's faith and acceptance giving him the courage to finally look at his king. "He knew, and he accepted me without question."

"Why Lancelot? Why not Gwaine, or Percival, or any of the other knights?"

"Or why not you?" asked Merlin softly, correctly deciphering Arthur's hidden question. "I didn't actually tell him, you know. It just sort of... happened. In fact, that's how it was with Gaius, too. I don't really go around announcing my magical abilities, Arthur. I can't, not if I want to keep my head."

Merlin gently kicked his horse into motion again, and Arthur followed him, his face concentrated into a frown as he watched his servant thoughtfully. If the conversation wasn't so serious, Merlin might have been tempted to grin at the look on Arthur's face as understanding suddenly flared into his features.

"The griffin," he said slowly. "It wasn't Lancelot who killed it, it was _you_."

"I think it was both of us, actually," said Merlin honestly. "I may have nudged things a little with my magic, but it was Lancelot's skill that drove the spear into the beast. Of course, Lancelot didn't see it that way, foolish man, and that was why he left." Fondness for his fallen friend was evident in his words, and he smiled regretfully to himself.

"You still miss him," said Arthur softly, thoughts of the noble knight momentarily overshadowing the current situation. Once again Merlin turned and gazed directly at his king, allowing his grief to shine clearly from his eyes.

"He was my friend, and he died for me," he said simply.

Arthur's head tipped back sharply.

"He died for _Camelot_."

"No, Arthur, he died for _me_. There was never a chance that you were going to walk through that veil, you know. It was _always_ going to be me. I knew it as soon as you'd declared your intentions. And Lancelot knew it, too."

Arthur raised his eyes in disbelief, his face a picture of shock.

"How did... why would you... what _happened_?"

Merlin dropped his gaze and swallowed painfully.

"I'm ashamed to admit it, but I used my magic to knock you out. I-I really had no choice, Arthur, seeing as you were so determined to sacrifice yourself. And then... then..."

"Then what, Merlin? _What_?"

"I approached the Cailleach, and we spoke for a moment. I fully intended to walk through the veil, but as I turned, I saw Lancelot had beaten me to it. It was too late to stop him, and all I could do was watch as he did the very thing that I was trying to save _you_ from."

Merlin blinked the moisture from his eyes before continuing.

"He smiled at me," he whispered softly, his own lips pulled into an unwilling copy of Lancelot's dying expression. "I don't think I'll ever get that image out of my mind. Lancelot, smiling as he faced death. And it was such a _waste_. It shouldn't have happened. It should have been me."

Merlin didn't know what he expected Arthur to say, but he certainly expected him to say _something_. What he definitely did _not_ expect was the heavy silence that followed his revelation. As the minutes crept by, he again felt the weight of depression pushing him down. Then the minutes became slow, agonizing hours, and still Arthur hadn't said a word. That was when despair truly settled upon him. There was still so much he had to tell Arthur, but he didn't know if he had the strength to do so. It was taking too long for Arthur to absorb, and there just wasn't _time_. Sighing to himself, he did what he always did when everything became too much. He reverted to his stoic servant persona, and kept his eyes open for a place where they could camp for the night. Arthur would be exhausted, and they needed to rest. Avalon was still over a day's ride away, and he needed to make sure the king had the strength to make it. Sleep and food were the immediate concerns, so Merlin pushed aside his despair and addressed the current problem.

Spotting a likely place for an overnight camp, Merlin dismounted and led both horses into a small clearing, before tying them securely. He helped Arthur down from his mount, and half carried, half dragged him to a tree, propping him against the trunk as gently as he could. The king's face was grey with pain and fatigue, but he was still silent, and Merlin wished more than anything that his friend would speak. Sending Arthur one last troubled glance, he paused, before gently resting his hand on Arthur's shoulder and squeezing it slightly. The armour would negate any feeling of course, but the gesture was heartfelt if nothing else. Arthur stiffened slightly, but still kept his silence. Merlin closed his eyes briefly before walking away.

**Well, that's the first bit. I'm not sure how long this will be, but the updates should be fairly quick in coming. It's been a long time since I posted anything so publicly, so I'm very nervous about publishing this – but here goes!**


	2. Flashes of Gold

"_I don't think I'll ever get that image out of my head. Lancelot, smiling as he faced death. And it was such a _waste. _ It shouldn't have happened. It should have been me."_

Merlin's words had been echoing through his mind ever since Arthur had first heard them, and he'd spent the afternoon desperately trying to recall the events of the terrible journey that had led Lancelot to his death. A huge part of the problem, of course, was that Arthur had been out cold when the climax of their quest had occurred. Surprisingly enough, Arthur found that he wasn't as angry about that as he should have been. It was just so typically _Merlin_ for him to render his king unconscious, and with apparently no hesitation. It served to remind him that, even when Merlin was sorcering (Arthur could think of no other word to describe Merlin's magical doings), he still had _no_ respect for the courtesies that were generally favoured upon royalty, and that somehow made Arthur feel a little better. At least _some_ things hadn't changed.

The biggest problem with remembering that dark time, though, was somewhat more unnerving. Apart from Lancelot's death, which had been traumatic enough, the strongest and – he was forced to admit to himself – most powerfully upsetting memory of that time was when Merlin almost died from the Dorocha attack. Merlin had without thought, without even a _second's _consideration, thrown himself into the path of the deadly spirit, and had swiftly and effectively saved Arthur's life.

This was_ not_ the action of an evil person, yet Arthur was painfully aware that he had, for the most part, allowed himself to accept that anything related to magic _was _evil. It made no sense.

"_It should have been me."_

Again, his manservant's words echoed loudly in his mind, and the king still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Merlin had intended to take his place. He just couldn't believe it. It was _impossible_. He was mistaken. It _had _to be impossible. Almost as impossible as the idea that Merlin had magic. Magic was... evil. So _Merlin_ was... _evil_? But that couldn't be right. Why would someone who was evil save Arthur's life? Or _anyone's_ life, for that matter. There was a fault in his logic somewhere, obviously. But if that was the case, what exactly _was_ the fault?

His head was spinning, and he sighed with frustration. _It made no sense._

Arthur lifted his eyes and watched his manservant cautiously. Merlin was just a little ahead of him, leading them towards a clearing. He had his head down, and was clearly lost in his own thoughts. The king, despite his turbulent feelings at the moment, couldn't help but roll his eyes. Merlin was wearing his usual clothing – the outfit that had never varied in all the years they had known each other – but all Arthur could picture was the old sorcerer's robes from the previous day, and so of course he immediately had the somewhat startling image pop into his head of Merlin draped in flowing red robes. It was odd to feel amusement as such a time, but Arthur reasoned that it wasn't altogether surprising. Merlin had the knack of causing amusement even when he _wasn't _trying to make people laugh. He was always so ridiculously...well, _ridiculous_.

Maybe he was becoming delirious, because surely he should not be feeling amused at the current situation. Yet amused he undoubtedly was. Despite everything. He wanted to put the feeling down to concussion, but his head was annoyingly free from injury.

A few seconds later, Arthur's amusement fled. Merlin had obviously decided to camp down for the night, and the excruciating pain in his chest seemed to increase tenfold when his manservant helped the king down from his horse. Now, to add to his already spinning head, he also had little black and red dots dancing in front of his eyes. And his chest was on _fire_. It was burning so much that he found himself checking for actual flames, a little nonplussed to discover nothing remotely akin to fire anywhere within his vicinity. By the time Merlin had settled him against a tree, Arthur was close to passing out. He'd never been in so much pain; _never_. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to _think_. It just hurt.

And then he saw Merlin gently squeezing his shoulder, and though he couldn't physically feel the gesture, his heart recognised the significance of it. For he remembered doing the same thing himself, just after Merlin had been attacked by the Dorocha. He remembered the feeling of hopelessness as he'd entrusted his manservant into the care of Lancelot, and had watched with despair as Merlin and the noble knight had ridden away. Then he remembered the astounding relief when somehow, by some miracle, Merlin had returned to him. Alive, fully healed, and smiling his characteristically goofy grin, even as he offered to take Arthur's place as the sacrifice.

Flashes of memory burst into Arthur's brain all at once, muddled and fragmented, but somehow creating a fully formed picture at the same time. Merlin, drinking poison for him; Merlin fearlessly standing up to the bandits when they had been captured near Ismere; Merlin pulling him from despair when Agravaine had betrayed him, and restoring the king's faith in himself. Most of all, Merlin leaping into the icy embrace of the Dorocha...

"_I'm happy to serve you until the day I die."_

And then he admitted to himself what he had known deep in his soul almost as soon as Merlin had made his astounding confession. The magic itself didn't bother him nearly as much as it probably should have. It was dangerous, obviously, but it was not evil in itself. Deep within the recesses of his mind, he'd _never _been comfortable with the strict laws that faced the magical community. There were too many grey areas for it to be considered wholly evil. He'd known this for a while; it had been preying on his mind ever since he'd overseen the brutal butchering of a particular Druid camp all those years ago, but he'd been too weak to do anything about it. He'd felt it would have been be an act of betrayal to undo his father's life's work. He was already painfully aware of Uther's disappointment in him, and though he knew it smacked of cowardice, he'd never been able to bring himself to do something that was so openly in defiance of his father's regime.

Even now, Arthur tried clinging to his father's convictions, because to admit otherwise would mean he'd have to face up to the real reason why he felt so betrayed. Merlin had started off being an irritating thorn in his flesh, but over the years he had morphed from a lowly manservant into his friend. His _best_ friend, in fact. His most _trusted_ friend.

He could probably forgive the magic. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he already did. He _wasn't _so sure he could forgive the lies, and it was that, more so than the fragment of blade that had been so wickedly wielded with betrayal, that was killing him.

He didn't know how long he sat there mulling over his stunned conclusions, but eventually he realised that dusk had fallen, and while he had been thinking, Merlin had been busy. A camp had been set up, albeit a small one, and Merlin was currently in the process of trying to start a fire. Arthur watched for several minutes as the man tried, and failed, to catch a spark from the flint. His manservant looked subdued, and even in the fading light of the day, Arthur could see the shadows under his eyes.

Merlin looked_... broken. _

Arthur had never been a man who dealt well with emotions, and he usually managed to say completely inappropriate things whenever he was faced with an uncomfortable situation. Particularly when his protective instincts kicked in, as they were doing at this precise moment. There was something so inherently _wrong_ with the way Merlin looked... so of course, Arthur's mouth slid into action a few seconds before his brain could catch up.

"Why don't you use magic?"

Merlin jumped at the question, and Arthur knew it wasn't because it was the first time he'd spoken in hours. He wanted to call back the words immediately, but the flicker of pain that rushed across his manservant's face caused the king to pause.

"Habit, I suppose."

The words were flatly spoken, but there was a depth of anguish contained in them that utterly stunned the king, and when Merlin glanced up, his expression a curious mixture of fear and hope, Arthur could do nothing more than nod to the silent question that hung heavily in the air. This time, there was no spell or hand waving, but Arthur clearly saw the brief flash of gold in Merlin's eyes.

He should have felt disgust, but all he could think was that the flare of gold was somehow beautifully hypnotic. He'd always likened the golden eyes that went hand in hand with sorcery to the burning fires of hell itself, mostly because he'd only ever been close enough to one person who'd used magic openly in front of him. Morgana's eyes had been filled with hate and fire, and even the memory of them was enough to cause Arthur to flinch. _Merlin's_ eyes, however, didn't flash in quite the same way. They still burned gold, but the fire behind them was gentler, with no apparent malice or evil intent. Of course, Merlin had merely ignited a small campfire, which, Arthur could only assume, wouldn't really need a lot of magic to accomplish. He freely admitted to an almost complete lack of magical understanding, but common sense told him that summoning a few puny flames was nothing compared to what he had witnessed Morgana doing. And as to the magic he had seen the previous day, well, a mere campfire was clearly a tiny magical act. The king found himself wondering how Merlin's eyes would appear when he was using stronger magic. His servant's eyes must have burned gold for a significant length of time during the battle, but Arthur hadn't been close to enough to discern anything more than the raw _power_ of the sorcerer who had so quickly and efficiently defeated the enemy.

It was difficult to reconcile that power with the gentle pulse of magic that had flowed so briefly from Merlin a moment ago.

"It feels strange."

"Yeah," said Arthur, frowning slightly. It _was_ strange. "I thought I knew you."

Merlin stood up and busied himself by rummaging through their supplies, his face averted. For a moment, Arthur thought he wasn't going to reply, but then his servant looked up and gazed earnestly at him.

"I'm still the same person."

Arthur wanted desperately to believe him, but all he could see was that image of pure, unadulterated power. It just didn't fit the person standing before him. He felt himself slump under the weight of bewilderment. He was just _so sick_ of the lies. He'd been lied to and betrayed so, so many times, and knowing Merlin had lied for so long was eating at him.

"I trusted you," he said quietly, finally giving words to the deep pain that burned visciously along with the blade fragment that was embedded in his chest.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur closed his eyes. That was it? Nothing else? Two little words to excuse a decade of deceit? He needed _more _than that. He needed the truth. He needed to understand.

"I'm sorry, too," he said flatly.

The king was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice the small sigh that accompanied the weary expression on Merlin's face as the servant stood up and approached him. Arthur felt his boots being gently tugged from his feet and couldn't help the frustration that coursed through him.

"What are you doing?" he asked testily.

"You need drying," was the no-nonsense response.

Well, _that_ answered him, the king thought ruefully, but this time he didn't say anything. In times past, he would have bantered back, possibly saying something that would point out the ridiculous obviousness of Merlin's reply, and he'd probably have accompanied the snarky words with the rolling of his eyes. That was how things usually worked, after all. But there was nothing about the current situation that remotely resembled anything to do with normality.

Suddenly it was too much, and as the king watched his servant with a frown creasing his brow, he found he could do nothing more than observe the way Merlin quietly went about his tasks.

It was surreal to watch as Merlin simply acted all ... _Merlin_-like. The man before him was performing the tasks he had done probably hundreds of times in the past, and there was nothing to indicate that anything had changed. Again, Arthur was struck by a stunning thought; if Merlin could act with such perfect... _Merlin-ness..._ after what had happened at Camlann, how many times had Merlin done this before? How many times had he done something magical, and then continued to act like he was nothing more than what he appeared to be?

This time, Arthur knew exactly what he was saying when he said it, and he watched carefully for his servant's reactions.

"Tell me more about Lancelot's sacrifice," he said slowly. "Tell me everything that led to it. Tell me what _really_ happened on that godforsaken island. And tell it _properly_, this time. I want to know it all. _No more lies, Merlin_."

Merlin's expression was again that strange combination of fear and hope, but this time Arthur could also recognise the underlying grief that lurked in his servant's eyes. It was a look, he realised with some shock, he had seen many times in the recent months - _too_ many times - but it was only _now_ that he understood exactly what it was.

And it was a terrible thing to see. How could one man carry so much grief?

Arthur saw the moment when Merlin shook off the weight of his emotions and replaced the grief with a flare of stoic resolution. It was astonishing how much strength he could sense radiating from the dark-haired man. He was possibly more awed by it than the magic.

Merlin inhaled a deep breath, let it out slowly, and pierced his king with an unwavering stare.

"No, Arthur, no more lies."

**That was quite difficult to write, mostly because Arthur's humor kept wanting to steal the scene, which really isn't appropriate to the overall tone of this story. Sadly, characters - even when they aren't your own - still manage to misbehave, even when you try to curb them. *sigh* Thank you for following and/or favouriting - hopefully you'll continue to enjoy the story! More over the weekend, all being well!**

**~ Ellessaria**


	3. Magic and Memories

**Thank you for the follows, and THANK YOU to midnightdove, who was kind enough to let me know they liked the story so far. :D I'm quite proud of myself for updating two days in a row, and also quite proud of the way this chapter turned out. I really enjoyed exploring Merlin's feelings in this, and I hope I've done credit to him - he deserves it. *hugs Merlin* Oh, and I definitely don't own Merlin. If I did, I would be giving him a REAL hug, poor bloke...**

_"No, Arthur. No more lies."_

Merlin kept his gaze fixed on the king for several moments, before narrowing his eyes and biting his lip. He nodded slowly to himself, then dropped to his haunches by the campfire. Grabbing a stray twig, he poked at the flames half-heartedly; he knew that the next minutes would be crucial if he wanted to keep any kind of friendship alive between him and his king, but he was having difficulty finding the right words. He'd never really been a great planner, whether it pertained to battle strategies _or_ conversations with his friend. Usually it was a case of acting first and thinking later.

"Merlin."

He jumped at Arthur's stern tone.

"Just... give me a moment," he said quietly.

"Why? So you can come up with a plausible story?" the king asked bitterly.

"No! No... so that I can find the right place to start." Merlin swallowed nervously. "It's... not easy."

Arthur nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment, and Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that he could somehow find the words that would convince his king of the truth. It was truly horrible having to recall the dreadful circumstances of Lancelot's death, as it was something that would always leave him feeling the heavy burden of guilt. Part of him was wishing he didn't have to relive it, but deep down he also knew that Lancelot's part in the story of Camelot's rise was possibly one of the most important things that Arthur truly needed to know.

"The first time I met Lancelot, he saved my life," he started slowly.

"From the griffin that you later killed," interrupted Arthur impatiently. "I already knew that, _Mer_lin, and this happened _years_ ago."

"I know!" snapped Merlin, his head jerking up. Seeing Arthur flinch, his features softened. "I know," he repeated with more calm. "But in order for you to understand what happened on the Isle of the Blessed, you need to know just how deep the bond was that Lancelot and I shared."

A brief look of compassion flashed across Arthur's face, and he again gave a slight nod in Merlin's direction, silently asking him to continue.

Merlin allowed himself a minute to compose his thoughts, and absent-mindedly began to play with the flames of the campfire. Scooping up a small ball of fire, he allowed it to ripple through his fingers. He'd always loved playing with fire, and it was something that he did whenever he was grappling with a problem. Of course, usually his fire games were confined to his room back at the castle, but the act of manipulating the flames soothed him, and he needed the calmness of the familiar ritual to help him right now.

"When Lancelot saved my life, I knew right away it wasn't just the act of a brave man. From the very first moment, I knew that he had a noble heart, and despite the fact that I was so obviously a nobody, he treated me with respect. There was no artifice in him; he made friends with anyone and everyone. He had such a big heart, and I sensed that immediately. Even on that first day, I suspected that I could probably tell him of my magic without ever having to worry about the consequences."

"You said that you never told him! That he found out by accident!" accused Arthur.

Merlin, who was now creating an elaborate display of purple and red sparks directly above the orange flames of the campfire, threw a stern look at the king.

"I _didn't _tell him, I just said that I _thought_ I could."

"What difference does that make? Stop talking in riddles."

A ghost of a smile flittered across his face, and Merlin's heart lightened a touch. Arthur's petulant tone - coupled with the frustrated pout on his lips - was a wonderful sight to behold; it was almost _normal_ behaviour from his friend.

"It made all the difference in the world. It was just so _nice_, knowing that I wouldn't be judged, or that I wouldn't have to worry about getting my head chopped off, or be burned to death."

There was an uncomfortable silence as Merlin allowed his words to sink in. Truly, he was not intending to make this any harder on Arthur than it already was, but the king needed to understand just how terrifying it was to live in a world where you could be killed just for being yourself. When the blonde man spoke again, it was with a much gentler tone.

"Why _didn't _you tell him, then?"

"Two reasons, I think," he said, watching the purple and red sparks as they twisted together to form one long fiery rope. "The immediate reason was that Gaius had ruthlessly drummed into me the importance of keeping my talents secret, and I knew that he was right to be so strict about it. You may not fully comprehend _why_ this was so important, but you can probably understand just how intimidating a disappointed and angry Gaius can be."

Arthur was surprised into a snort. "Yes, I've been on the end of one of Gaius' disapproving eyebrows more times than I care to admit, so I'll give you that."

"Gaius really only enforced what I had already known for a long time, my lord. Ever since I was old enough to understand what was so different about me, my mother was already skilled in the art of covering for me. She knew the importance of keeping my magic concealed, and she made sure that _I_ knew it, too."

Merlin paused again. He knew he was wandering away from the point, but it was just so difficult to keep everything straight. Nothing that had happened in the last few years could be explained simply; they were all intricately and inexplicably linked, and to understand _one_ thing, you had to understand any number of _other _things at the same time. He needed to focus himself before he went any further, that much was obvious.

Apparently, Arthur was also mulling things over, because while Merlin was casually shaping the magical purple and red rope into a circle, the king asked him a question that proved he was listening to Merlin more closely than he ever had before.

"Just _how long_ have you been practising magic?"

"I've never _practised_ magic, Arthur. Not in the sense that you mean, anyway. I was _born_ with it."

If Merlin would have looked at his king in that moment, he would have been surprised at the expression of astonishment that literally rocked his features. But Merlin wasn't looking at his king; he was busy scooping up more of the flames from the campfire. He squinted at the circle of magical fire in front of him, and tilted his head slightly. Nodding once, he began to mould the flames in his fingers into a second rope of purple and red sparks, and began sending them into the air.

"The second reason that I didn't tell Lancelot about my magic was you," he continued in a stronger voice. "I was never comfortable with keeping the truth from you, even as far back as then. I always wanted there to be no secrets between us. I couldn't in all conscience tell _anyone_ before I told you. Secrets are dangerous things, my lord, and I couldn't relax my guard, no matter how much I wanted to. The less people who knew, the easier the secret was to keep, and the safer everyone was."

Merlin quickly put the finishing touches to his fiery creation and smiled with satisfaction. He never really knew what his fingers would create when he played his fire games, but his magic was instinctual, and the dispays he created not only served to calm and help him focus, they also tended to give him insight into whatever was troubling him. This time he had created a magical interpretation of the Pendragon crest. Inside the circle of rope, a majestic dragon was glowing brightly, its wings opened in flight, and its head lifted nobly towards the sky.

Abruptly, he switched his magical focus off, and the purple and red sparks floated gently back into the flames beneath. Merlin rubbed his hands on his trousers and changed his position so that he was sitting crossed-legged, and fully facing the king. Arthur was looking at the campfire with an intense expression, his brow furrowed deeply. Merlin waited patiently, and eventually Arthur tore his gaze away and looked at him. Taking this as his cue to continue, Merlin nodded.

"After the griffin was killed, and Lancelot refused to stay in Camelot, he pulled me to one side and told me he knew I had magic. I tried to deny it, but Lancelot had this _way_ of looking at you, and despite my protests, I knew he didn't believe me. I never had to ask him to keep my secret for me; he both accepted my talents, and offered his protection at the same time. It was one of the most wonderful, yet most _awful_ things to have ever happened to me. In one hand, I was being given a friend, and in the other, he was being taken away from me."

Merlin blew out a breath and allowed the pain of the memory to wash over him, waiting for his emotions to control themselves.

"Part of me knew that I would see him again, or at least, part of me _wished_ that I would. Years later, when he came back, we were in the middle of a crisis, but Lancelot was just as noble and brave as I had remembered. He immediately discovered that I was going after the Cup of Life, and he swore to help me without any thought of how dangerous it was going to be. He was my friend, and all he wanted to do was help me."

"You destroyed the Cup of Life," said Arthur, his voice a mixture of shock and awe.

"Well, yes, but that's not relevant at the moment," said Merlin, waving his arm vaguely.

"I'm pretty sure it was relevant at the time," muttered Arthur darkly, surprising Merlin into a tiny grin. "I suppose this deed is one of _many_ that I don't know about," continued the king, pinching the bridge of his nose. Merlin's grin died and he became serious again.

"This isn't about what I've done, Arthur, this is about _who I am_. Lancelot never needed me to explain anything to him; he saw through the magic, and recognised Merlin the _person_, not the sorcerer. He was my friend, and he protected me."

Arthur went pale at this, and Merlin wondered idly what was going through his king's mind. Nodding his head, he realised there was nothing else he could say that would explain just how deep the bonds of friendship had been between himself and Lancelot. Judging by Arthur's expression, he had a pretty shrewd idea that he'd already done a good job.

"Do you remember the Samhain Feast, just before the Dorocha appeared?" he asked abruptly.

Arthur jumped.

"Of course. If I remember correctly, you fainted like a _girl_."

"We-ell, yes. And no. I passed out, that much is true, but there wasn't anything remotely _girl_-like about it. While you were busy toasting with the guests, I was being treated to the sight of the Cailleach. She was stood a few feet in front of me, and she said my name three times."

Merlin shuddered at the memory, even now feeling the chill from that terrible moment.

"She terrified me, I freely admit it. She only said my name, but the pain that she radiated, along with the complete and utter sense of doom..." Merlin shuddered again. "But it wasn't fear that caused me to collapse. I felt like my entire body was encased in ice, and my heart slowed down enough to hinder the blood flowing through my veins. It took Gaius several hours to warm me back up again, and Lancelot was with me the whole time."

"Alright, so you _didn't_ faint like a girl," said Arthur uncomfortably.

"Indeed," Merlin replied ruefully. "Anyway, I recovered, and then the Dorocha began to attack. You actually already know most of what followed before we left for the Isle of the Blessed, except for one crucial point."

"And that is?"

"Somehow, my magic stopped working. At least, it was useless against the Dorocha. Lancelot was furious with me for coming on the quest with you. He knew I was basically helpless around the Dorocha, and tried everything to persuade me to return to Camelot. Eventually he realised that I would _not_ be taking his advice."

Arthur looked stunned, and if Merlin wasn't mistaken, a tad angry, too.

"Why the _hell _did you come with us?"

"It's all a question of duty, Arthur," he shrugged. "And as soon as I explained that to Lancelot, he knew he couldn't win."

Merlin gave the king a few seconds to digest this information, and decided to move the story along a little. He had _no_ desire to relive the moment when he had touched the Dorocha's evil, and he suspected that Arthur felt the same way.

"After I was healed," he began, only to be cut off immediately.

"And how _were_ you healed? Did you do it yourself? Were you just _waiting_ till I was out of the way before saving your own life?"

Merlin knew that Arthur was just lashing out, but he couldn't help himself from retorting angrily at these accusations.

"Don't you remember _anything_? I _begged _you to let me come with you, but you wouldn't listen! And no, I did _not _heal myself. I'm not so stupid as to let myself die for no good reason, despite what you think of me," he huffed.

"Oh," said Arthur blankly. Then, "So how...?"

"Look, suffice to say I had magical intervention," said Merlin wearily. "I'm doing my best to tell you what happened, Arthur, but if I have to explain every single detail of every single thing that happened, we're going to be here for a long, long time." _And we don't have that time._

Arthur grudgingly accepted this, and waved his hand slightly.

"After I was healed," he began again, watching Arthur sternly until he was sure he had his attention, "Lancelot tried again to persuade me to return to Camelot. Of course, he failed, but it wasn't surprising that he tried anyway. We were almost a day behind you by now, and though we moved swiftly, we had to take shelter for the night. Unsurprisingly, we were attacked by the Dorocha, and only narrowly escaped."

Merlin had weighed up the advantages of mentioning Kilgharrah's role in this part of the tale, and had swiftly decided that explaining the whole Dragon Lord thing at this point would perhaps be going a little too far. Arthur was already struggling with the magic confession, the poor man didn't need another shock.

"The next day, when we were almost caught up with you, Lancelot asked me if I planned to take your place as the sacrifice."

"Why would he ask you that?" Arthur cut in suspiciously.

"He just did," said Merlin vaguely, not about to reveal that he'd stated his intentions quite clearly in front of both the noble knight and a certain dragon. "I couldn't deny it, and Lancelot didn't like that."

"No, I'm sure he didn't," said Arthur, almost to himself.

"He questioned my willingness to take your place, and I told him the truth. That you had to have a reason; something that was more important than anything else, even your life."

Merlin frowned and averted his face from Arthur's sudden scrutiny. He blinked away the tears that were threatening to spill from his eyes, and shook his head.

"I should have suspected his intentions right then, because that was the first time he didn't try to talk me out of doing something that was dangerous. But I was oblivious. I was too caught up in my determination to reach you before _you_ did something dangerous."

"Merlin..."

"No, let me finish, please," he replied tonelessly. "I'm almost done now. In fact, there really isn't much I can add that you don't already know. We caught up with you, and we travelled together to the Isle of the Blessed. We met the Cailleach, and you gave your word that you were willing to do whatever it took to save your people. As soon as you stepped forward, I pulled you back; not enough to hurt you, but enough to ensure that you couldn't witness what I was about to do. I-I admit that I was partly selfish for doing that. I could easily have immobilized you so that you wouldn't try to stop me, but that wasn't enough. I needed you to be unconscious. I didn't want your last memory of me to be one that caused you pain, and I knew that my magic would have made you think badly of me."

"Merlin..."

"Let me finish!" he cried desperately, the words wrenched from his throat.

Arthur winced, but didn't say anything more.

"As I approached the Cailleach, I looked at Lancelot. It was only for a moment, but I _knew_ in that moment he understood me completely. He'd always accepted me, and I'd always known that, but the look that we shared went beyond mere understanding. There's no word for what passed between us then, but whatever it was, it gave me the strength to do what I needed to do. I was shaking so badly, Arthur, but the warmth of Lancelot's trust and affection lifted me somehow, and when I spoke to the Cailleach, I was able to do so without betraying my terrible fear. That was when I made my mistake."

"Mistake?" asked Arthur softly, confusion evident in the word.

"Yes, a mistake," said Merlin heavily. "I shouldn't have spoken to the Cailleach, I should have just walked into the veil. But then, I suppose the Cailleach knew _exactly_ what she was doing as she distracted me." He laughed bitterly. "She told me that it wasn't my time; that I still had much to do before I could die. That it wasn't my choice to leave the world, even if I wanted to. Then she shifted her gaze and I followed it, and saw Lancelot. He'd walked behind me, and was a footstep away from the veil. He turned to look over his shoulder, and again I felt the warmth of his acceptance. I also saw the strength and nobility that I'd seen every day that I'd known him. Then... he was gone."

Merlin's voice had grown hoarse with the emotion that it had taken to finish his tale, and he stood up, avoiding Arthur's eyes. Grabbing a waterskin from their supplies, he drank deeply from it before offering it to the king.

"So you see," he said shakily. "It really _should_ have been me."


	4. The Absence of a Smile

**Yikes! Three updates in as many days! I know I'm really putting our boys through some extreme emotional stress, but it's for a good reason, I swear. I know where I'm going with this, and though we all know the ending, I at least hope it won't be _quite_ as heartbreaking as the show's finale was. I'm pretty sure that this is the last one for this weekend, and as I work Monday to Friday, there probably won't be anything new until _next_ weekend. Then again, this is fairly pouring out at the moment, so who knows? Thanks again for the follows and the favourites, and a huge shout out to CaptainOzone, whose wonderful review literally brought tears to my eyes. :)) **

If Arthur thought he was confused before, then he was rendered utterly _confounded_ by his servant's heartwrenching explosion of grief. He was desperate to say something to his friend, but he really had no idea what words he could use. How could he even _begin_ to convey his thoughts and reactions to what had undoubtedly been an extremely painful experience for the dark-haired man who was currently pacing so nervously before him?

He was robbed of speech. Hell, he was almost robbed of his very breath, and he was aware more than ever of his complete inadequacy when it came to dealing with anything remotely linked to the emotions of another person. From the moment Merlin had started speaking, Arthur had wanted to call back his demand for answers; however much he wanted – _needed _– to know the truth, the king also knew he was totally incapable of dealing with the consequences of his command.

If Merlin had looked broken before, that was _nothing_ compare to how he looked right now. The man in front of him was unravelling before his very eyes, and Arthur was at a loss as to how he could help him. For despite everything that had happened, despite the lies he'd been told and the truths that had been revealed, there was one feeling inside him that overwhelmed all of his instincts. There was still anger there, and there was still the cold sting of betrayal, no matter how much he tried to bury it; but more than that, there was compassion for his friend, and he had no idea what to do about it.

He was far too forgiving, he scolded himself, trying desperately to cling to the gut reaction of fury he'd experienced when he had first heard Merlin's confession. He knew it was stupid to clutch at the strands of his initial anger, but he was afraid of what could happen if he let go of it entirely; he was afraid of what it would do to him if he allowed acceptance to flow through him. His friend had spoken at length about Lancelot and the events that had led to his death, but Arthur was as sure as it was possible to be that what he had learned barely even _tapped _the surface of the mystery that was Merlin. He didn't know if he was strong enough to survive the guilt that he suspected would be unrelenting if he fully embraced the truth; he shied away at the very thought of it.

So Arthur kept a lid on his emotions – something he had been able to do for as long as he could remember – and simply did what he always did. He pushed his feelings of guilt and compassion to one side, and locked them away safely, protecting himself from the pain. It was selfish, and it was cowardly, but for the moment, he had enough physical pain to deal without adding emotional trauma to it. Besides, Merlin appeared to be suffering enough pain for the both of them.

Arthur mentally swatted away the fresh burst of guilt at that thought.

His servant appeared to have spoken himself hoarse, and was plainly evading the king's eyes as he occupied himself with what Arthur could only assume was to be their supper. Numbly, he realised that they hadn't stopped to eat since they'd left Gaius earlier that day. He shifted slightly and made himself appear to be sleeping; he was just as unwilling to address the situation as his servant apparently was. Once he was satisfied that Merlin was completely oblivious to everything apart from the pot he was stirring, Arthur relaxed enough to observe the man before him.

He didn't look any different than what he normally did; the same shabby clothes; the same gangly frame, and the same ridiculously large ears, which stuck out awkwardly from the mop of unruly dark hair. He was the same as he'd always been... except he was totally and utterly _different_. It took several minutes before Arthur could put his finger on what was bothering him, but when he did, it was so obvious that he couldn't understand why he'd never seen it before.

Whenever Arthur had thought about his idiot of a manservant in the past – which, if was honest with himself, was far more often than he chose to analyse – his immediate impression had always consisted of his servant's infectious humour, and his stupid smile, which never failed to epitomise the goofiness of his friend's features. No matter how dire the situation, Merlin had always managed to make him laugh.

Of course, sometimes the laughter was probably completely unintentional – Merlin was and always _had_ been an idiot – but the laughter had been there nonetheless. The light-heartedness that was so central to the character of his servant was something that had grounded Arthur so many times over the years that he'd almost forgotten it was there. It was as familiar as his own hands, and heaven knew he didn't waste his time thinking about _them_. After all, why would he think about something that was simply... there? Merlin's inherent sparkle and joy for life was just another one of those things that Arthur accepted as fact. Merlin wouldn't be Merlin without it.

As he scrutinized the man in front of him, however, Arthur knew exactly why he looked so foreign to him. It wasn't the fact that he knew about the magic, and it had nothing to do with their earlier conversation about Lancelot. It was, quite simply, the absence of his smile. The face before him bore no resemblance to the Merlin of the past. There was no trace of the mischief that usually danced in his eyes, and no sign of the laughter that was usually not far beneath the surface. The lips that so often turned upwards were currently thin and drawn.

Merlin was about as far from smiling as he could probably get, and it was this that shook Arthur to the depths of his soul. His own thoughts taunted him wickedly...

_How could one man carry so much grief?_

Arthur may have had little to no experience when it came to deciphering the emotions of others, but even _he_ could see that the grief that weighed on his friend was too deep to be associated with their recent conversation. That Merlin mourned the lost knight was obvious, but it wasn't what was causing the dark-haired man to look on the verge of a nervous collapse.

Merlin was worried about his king, but even though Arthur knew that was part of it, he also realised that this still wasn't the whole reason that his friend looked so desolate. This was something deeper; something that had been torturing his servant for far longer than a few hours. This wasn't a fresh pain; this was something that had been whipping at Merlin for a long time.

Now that he thought about it, he realised that Merlin's smiles had been growing steadily less frequent for months now. What astonished him was that he hadn't even noticed, not really. Oh, there had been times when he had grown impatient with his friend for being somewhat moody, but he'd never paused long enough to question the change in him.

_What the hell had happened to cause Merlin to lose such a huge part of himself?_

Arthur didn't have chance to ponder this latest burst of insight, as suddenly the man in question stood up and approached him.

"Arthur?" he whispered. "You awake?"

The king blinked blearily in the direction of his friend, and flinched at the sight of the face that was mere inches away from his own. The proximity only served to highlight the drastic changes that he had only just begun to fathom. The light from the campfire flickered eerily across Merlin's face, cruelly enhancing his ghost-like features. His skin was paler than he had ever seen it, and the bruises beneath his eyes were so dark that they almost obscured them._ Almost_. But even the bruises couldn't disguise the deep anguish that lurked in the fathomless blue orbs that were even now darkening with indescribable pain.

"There's no need to do that," his friend whispered sharply. "There's no need to shrink away from me. I'd _never_ hurt you, Arthur."

Too late, Arthur realised that his instinctual backing away from the pain etched in his servant's face only served to torture his friend even more. The way Merlin's shoulders slumped was truly soul-shattering.

"Merlin, I..."

"It's alright, I understand. I-I just brought you some food, that's all."

"I'm not hungry," said Arthur numbly, unable to find the words to defend himself.

"I haven't poisoned it or anything."

"I know," said Arthur wearily. "I'm just not hungry._ Really_. Don't read anything more than that into it."

"Oh. Right."

His friend shuffled his feet nervously, eyeing the bowl in his hands. He looked lost, and this was yet another thing that Arthur now realised was familiar to him, though he couldn't pin-point any specific memory where he'd seen the same thing before now.

He was so damn _blind_.

"Go and eat, Merlin. There's no point wasting it."

Merlin nodded reluctantly, and returned to his position by the fire. Arthur resumed his fake sleeping and watched his servant carefully. After several minutes of listlessly stirring the food in his bowl, Merlin eventually poured the contents back into the cooking pot. He stole a glance at the king before slowly standing and removing the pot from the flames. Arthur watched as his friend quietly cleaned up the area, covering the stew he had made with a cloth, and placing the bowls beside it. He set down his bedroll near the fire and settled down, all the while shooting concerned glances at the king.

Several minutes passed, until Arthur was sure that his servant had drifted into a light slumber; then he saw what was now the familiar sparks of magic floating slowly upwards from the fire. He couldn't be sure, but he was fairly certain that Merlin did indeed have his eyes closed, though clearly it was more of a meditative state rather than actual sleep. Merlin was lying with one of his arms beneath his head, and the other hand was idly circling the ground in front of him. It was a completely different pose from the one earlier that evening, but it told Arthur the same thing as before.

It was obvious that Merlin wasn't really concentrating on the magical sparks before him. The way he created the shimmering images with the flames was as natural to him as scratching an itch. Arthur had now seen his friend's skill with fire three times, and each time he had been – albeit unwillingly – struck by the sheer beauty of it.

Once again, a dragon was the main focal point, and Arthur understood this was significant somehow, and not only because of the Pendragon crest. The dragon represented something more personal to his friend_._ He didn't know _how_ he knew this, he just did, and he wasn't about to start questioning his certainty when he realised that Merlin was far from finished with his latest surge of magical artistry. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, Arthur was filled with a pleasant anticipation for what his friend was about to do.

At first, he couldn't make out what the servant was creating, but after subtly shifting his position, he was fully able to take in the entire image that was glowing brightly above the fire. The dragon was in much the same pose as before; its wings spread wide, as if soaring in flight, and its head looking regally into the sky. But that was where the similarities ended, because there was something new in this image, something that Arthur was struggling to comprehend. Dwarfed beneath the dragon was the figure of a man, his arms outstretched, as if wanting to embrace the magical creature before him. The fiery man wasn't big enough for there to be any recognisable features, but Arthur noted the shoulder-length hair and the tell-tale swirl of a cloak.

"_Help me_. _Please_ _help me_."

Arthur was pulled rudely from his contemplation by the softly spoken words. He blinked, and listened closely, wondering if his friend would say anything else. He was rewarded for his patience when Merlin continued to whisper into the darkness.

"_I don't know if I have the strength to do this. I thought it would be easier when he knew, but it's not. Despite everything, I've always believed he would accept me. And I _know_ he has it in him to do that. I know it. But I never expected him to be dying when I finally told him the truth. This isn't right. None of it is."_

The king wilted under the weight of desperation that was so clearly behind the words being torn from his friend's heart. Shying away from this was no longer an option, and no matter how much he wished he could look away, his eyes stubbornly refused to obey his command.

Merlin's eyes were now open, and even though the king wasn't close enough to see it himself, he knew that those orbs were pleading for some sort of answer.

"_Please, help me one more time. I can't lose him. I _can't_. If I do, there's nothing left. I'll have failed; my purpose, my entire life, will have been for nothing. I can't live with that. It will destroy me. Please... please help me."_

Arthur could not begin to understand what his servant was talking about - purpose? _what_ purpose? - nor could he guess who Merlin was directing his pleas to. The only thing he understood was that Merlin was begging for his king's life, and the sheer _agony _that was revealed in his friend's voice was ripping Arthur to shreds.

The king was intensely relieved that Merlin had now fallen silent; he honestly did not know if he could cope with any more disturbing insights into his friend. He felt himself slump a little, letting his muscles relax, and exhaled silently, only to gasp with shock mere moments later.

The image of the dragon and the strange man disintegrated, only it was not with the same calmness that Arthur had seen before. This time, the shower of sparks did not return gently to the fire below; _this _time they exploded silently, yet powerfully, all at once, and seemed to attack the very flames that gave them life. Stunned by the sudden ferocity displayed before him, Arthur could only gape at the dark-haired man who had made it happen, and was once again struck by the complete _wrongness_ of what his eyes revealed to him.

Arthur didn't think he had ever seen anyone so angry in his entire life, least of all _Merlin_, and though he knew the anger was not directed at _him_, he was suddenly terrified.

Once again, the king was stricken with the undeniable knowledge that he had _no_ idea who his friend really was; he didn't know him at all.


	5. Humour and Hope

**Hello, and to the new followers - thank you! I was able to finish the next chapter earlier than expected, so here you go. I hope you enjoy it. For those of you who are maybe curious, we're approaching the end of the first day in my story's timeline. The second half of their journey will contain more bits from the series finale, and I have to structure the story around these a little more closely. I'm guessing there will be between 12 and 15 chapters by the time we reach the end. I can't wait to show you guys the ending, as it contains the small action that inspired this entire story.**

**Also, I don't have a beta (I never use them), so any mistakes are my own. I sincerely hope there aren't many, but if you spot anything, please feel free to let me know, and I'll fix them. :)) **

**I don't own Merlin, by the way...**

Punching the soft earth viciously, Merlin watched his magical display explode before him. He didn't know why he had even _thought_ he could get any outside help; deep down, he'd known that Balinor was essentially lost to him. He would always feel his presence, but he knew that anything further than that was beyond either of them.

He was just so damned _angry_. He'd felt the weight of his burden growing steadily stronger over the last year or two, the deadly sense of fear relentlessly keeping him within its grip. But despite the fear, despite the ever-present knowledge that he couldn't escape his destiny, he'd always clung to the hope that eventually he would be able to be free from it. That one day he could live in a world where he didn't have to hide himself from his best friend. Time and time again he'd been told that he, the so-called mighty Emrys, was the man fated to bring the golden age of Albion into existence, and that he alone was the one destined to aid the Once and Future King in their common goal. He'd fully let himself believe that it was all true, because he'd known that if he'd doubted it for even one moment, he would never find the strength to go on.

He doubted himself now. And he had been right to be afraid of it. He felt _crushed_, and he couldn't see a way out. He was just _so angry_.

He'd known that Mordred was the key to their downfall, but despite Merlin's efforts, he'd never been able to eliminate the risk that the druid boy had posed. He'd wished _so many times_ he could go back into the past, and take Kilgharrah's words more seriously. He wished he'd been able to offer Morgana more support when she'd first discovered her magic. He wished so many things.

He wished that years ago he had been able to summon the anger that was coursing through his veins so strongly right now, because he was absolutely certain that the emotion would have overridden his gentler nature, and would have enabled him to rid the world of the boy whose future role was to murder their king.

But it was pointless wishing for the past to be different; it wouldn't change anything. And perhaps it _was_ better this way; killing a then innocent boy would have damaged Merlin beyond repair, and he didn't think he'd be the same person he was today if he had done it. Maybe he would have turned just as evil as Morgana had. He honestly didn't know which was worse; to be have missed the years he had spent with Arthur – who would no doubt already be dead by now – and to be free of the pain that currently consumed him, or to be in the position he now found himself in. Both scenarios were utterly bleak.

Merlin knew he was sinking too far into his own pit of depression, but he didn't know if he had enough energy to pull himself free from it. All he'd dreamed of, all he'd ever wanted, was disintegrating just as violently as the fiery dragon from a few moments before.

He knew he was panicking, just as he knew that it was panic that had allowed him to stupidly think he could expect to get answers from his father. He was alone in this, and the only person who could help him was himself. He consciously allowed himself to breathe through his anger, and gently smoothed out the indentation that his fist had created in the earth. As soon as he felt calmer, he became aware of the sounds of breathing behind him. He swiftly turned, and though Arthur still appeared to be asleep, Merlin detected the tell-tale stiffening of the king's posture. He wasn't asleep after all.

"Arthur?"

Merlin scrambled to his feet and walked swiftly towards his king, immediately taking in the fact that Arthur's breathing was substantially worse than it had been before. He was under no illusion that the fragment of blade was closer than ever to reaching its goal, but he was also aware that the king's erratic breathing was also probably influenced by the scene he had just been a witness to. The question was, how much had the king seen? And more importantly, had he _heard _anything? Merlin couldn't recall his exact words, but he was vaguely aware that he may have said something that gave away far more than he'd wanted Arthur to know at this point. His hastily made plan was to gradually reveal the intricate pieces of his past so as not to overwhelm his friend with the sheer scale of their shared destiny. But perhaps it was too late for that.

Merlin's gaze softened and he pushed his concerns away. Far more pressing was the king's obvious distress.

"Here," he said gently. "Let me help you. I can't cure you, but I can certainly ease your breathing."

Arthur blinked dazedly at him, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. Merlin carefully held both of his hands over Arthur's chest, felt the gold flooding his eyes, and allowed his senses to find the area that was congested. He commanded the obstruction to bend to his will, and after several moments he heard Arthur's breathing ease up a little.

"There," he said, squeezing his friend's arm. "It may not be much, but you should feel more restful for a while. You should get some sleep while you can."

Merlin was in the process of getting back to his feet, when the king suddenly stopped him. The warlock looked at the hand gently gripping his wrist, and bit his lip.

"Thank you," whispered Arthur. "It _does_ feel a little better."

"Good." Merlin cleared his throat. "Well... get some sleep, then."

"I don't want to sleep. I'll be sleeping forever soon enough."

"_Don't."_

"We both know it's true," said Arthur, fixing Merlin with a stare that the servant was extremely familiar with. The one that said 'I'm-right-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-about-it'.

"There's still time to fix this," Merlin said stubbornly. "We can do this, Arthur. _I_ can do this."

"Merlin..."

"No, I'm not going to listen to you, so stop being a prat." Merlin clapped his hands over his mouth and stared at his king remorsefully. "I'm sorry, Sire."

"For pity's sake, _Mer_lin, _don't_ apologise. Not for saying the same thing you have said to me for as long as I've known you. Believe it or not, it's actually quite comforting to know that you're still the same insolent idiot that you've always been."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. Arthur had been swinging between humour and shock for most of the day, and Merlin was completely baffled by his behaviour.

"Don't look so worried, I haven't lost my mind. Not yet, at any rate," Arthur smirked, and then rolled his eyes for good measure. "Oh for goodness sake, Merlin, take that ridiculous look off your face, it really doesn't suit you."

The words were pure bravado, of course, and Merlin could tell how much effort it had taken for the king to make himself appear convincing. His breathing was laboured, and his eyes were dulled with pain. Nevertheless, Merlin was heartened by the fact that Arthur was, in his typical prattish way, trying to cheer him up. Truly touched, he offered his king a small smile of gratitude.

"That's better," Arthur said quietly, nodding to himself. "Now, tell me, what on _earth_ you were doing just now?"

Merlin's stomach immediately dropped somewhere in the vicinity of his feet, and his earlier panic returned with frightening speed.

"_What_?" he spluttered.

"Don't _do _that!"

"What?" _Great, now he was reduced to a single word_. Merlin felt hysteria bubbling to the surface, and wondered idly if his face reflected his current inappropriate humour.

"_That_!" said Arthur sternly. "The flinching and the – the – total _withdrawal_ thing that you're doing." Arthur gestured faintly with his hand. "You've already confessed to the worst thing you could ever tell me, what could _possibly_ be more frightening than that?"

"Um..."

"_Mer_lin."

"I don't want to overwhelm you," he mumbled truthfully.

Arthur laughed softly, causing Merlin to once again flinch.

"It's a bit late for that," the king said, wryness creeping into his voice. "In the last twenty four hours, I've been stabbed by a former friend, and had the living daylights scared out of me by my trusted manservant, who has _somehow _managed to deceive me ever since the day we first met. Whatever you tell me now, it surely can't be anything worse."

"I don't know about that," he muttered darkly, running his fingers through his hair. Then he flushed guiltily as he realised he'd spoken the words aloud. He slid his gaze to the king, lingered for a moment, then looked for inspiration in the sky. It was beautifully ironic that the next words from Arthur hit the source of Merlin's guilt perfectly on target.

"Tell me about the dragon. It's obviously important to you. You keep creating them, though I don't think you're fully aware that you're doing it until it's done."

Merlin was momentarily stunned. While Arthur was far from being dim-witted (despite Merlin having teased him about it for many years), he'd never been overly insightful. For the king to have sensed the importance of the dragon was... disturbing. But it was hopeful, too.

"I'm not sure where to begin...it's..." Merlin chose his words carefully. "It's complicated. And you're not going to like it."

"I don't like much of anything that's happened lately," said the king, and Merlin detected the bitterness of his words.

"Arthur..."

The king waved his arm dismissively.

"I need the distraction," the blonde said bluntly. "And for all of your faults – and there are many, not least your affinity with lying – you've always been entertaining, whether you intended it or not."

Merlin felt a smile pulling at his lips; despite the hurt that the king so obviously felt at his servant's lies, his ability to both compliment and insult him with one sentence was so familiar that he felt his underlying depression lift just a little bit.

"You _really _want to know about the dragon?" he asked doubtfully. At Arthur's nod, Merlin shrugged. "Do you want the simple answer, or the longer, slightly convoluted one?"

"_Mer_lin."

The warlock allowed himself a chuckle, and it was so _good _to feel genuine humour, even if it was only for a moment. He quickly sat down in front of the king, and pulled his knees up before him.

"I'll give you the simple answer first," he said quickly. "Best to ease you into this, I think."

Arthur rolled his eyes again.

"I love playing with fire, as you've probably noticed..."

"The mind truly boggles, it has to be said. You're far too clumsy to be allowed anywhere _near_ a naked flame," the king muttered.

"Arthur."

"Sorry."

"So... I like playing with fire. I always have. I used to drive my mother mad, until I finally convinced her that it was perfectly safe." Merlin ignored the snort that his friend couldn't quite conceal. "There's something about fire that soothes me. I don't know why, but it does. Every time I have a problem, I inevitably find myself in front of a fire. It doesn't make sense really, because for me, fire is probably one of my worst fears."

Merlin looked up a little guiltily and caught the king's confused expression.

"The pyres, you know..." he said apologetically.

"Ah."

"Anyway, I soon realised that while my mind was busy thinking about whatever problem I had, my magic was completely separate from my thoughts, and started to create things all on its own. More often than not, it was usually a dragon. Of course, years ago I never really understood it, but I suppose, even when I was oblivious, it was always a part of me. It makes sense that my magic kept conjuring a dragon."

Merlin suddenly found himself staring straight into Arthur's eyes.

"You know, that's the first time I really made the connection," he said, sounding slightly shocked, even to his _own_ ears.

Arthur frowned and looked like he was going to reply, but Merlin waved him to silence.

"Never mind, I'll explain later. One thing at a time. The simple answer as to why I create dragons is you. Or, more specifically, who you are. I've been protecting you for as long as I've known you. It's such a huge part of my life, and my magic obviously recognised this."

"Wait, back up a bit. You say you've been creating these dragons since you were a child, yet surely this was _years _before you even met me. How is this even possible? You're not making sense."

Merlin frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, missing the king's look of exasperation.

"Hmm, maybe the simple reason isn't so simple. Maybe it's actually the _difficult _reason. Destinies are troublesome things, after all."

"Merlin?"

"What?"

"You're mumbling."

"Sorry. I think maybe I should go for the other reason." Merlin frowned again. "Though honestly, you're not going to like it any better."

"What about this ... destiny thing? This isn't the first time you've mentioned it."

"That's really rather complicated, my lord, and better left for when you've had chance to rest. I'm pretty sure you're going to want to sleep on what I'm about to tell you anyway."

The king kept his silence, and Merlin knew he had his full attention.

"I'm not only a sorcerer," he said quietly. "I'm also a Dragon Lord."

Merlin was again met with silence, and he found himself checking if the king had actually fallen asleep. Arthur was looking at him strangely; for the first time ever, it seemed the warlock had managed to render his friend speechless.

"I didn't know about the Dragon Lord thing until a few years ago. I never knew _anything_ about Dragon Lords, or at least, no more than the next person. But when Camelot was being attacked by the Great Dragon, my knowledge became far more extensive."

"If you were a Dragon Lord, why the _hell_ did we go hunting for that Balinor person?"

_Ah. _Apparently Arthur's speechlessness was only a momentary aberration.

"Because I wasn't a Dragon Lord then," said Merlin patiently. "A Dragon Lord only comes into his powers when his f-father dies. Balinor was my father, Arthur. Gaius informed me just before we left to find him."

"Your _father_? But... how... when... _why_ didn't you tell me?"

"Because it served no purpose to tell you," he replied honestly. "Uther would have had me banished at the very least, or burned me for my heritage. And you would have had to tell him, my lord."

"Not necessarily," the blonde muttered, averting his gaze.

"Well, maybe not," Merlin conceded. "But I still couldn't take the risk. And it didn't matter in the end, because Kilgharrah was stopped."

"Kilgharrah?"

"Er, the Great Dragon," he mumbled.

"That thing had a _name_? Wait... _you_ killed that beast?"

"We-ell... I certainly stopped him. And of course he has a name. You don't call all dogs 'Dog', do you?" he huffed.

"You didn't kill it," groaned the king. "_Of course_ you didn't kill it. You get teary-eyed when you accidentally step on an ant."

"I couldn't kill him, Arthur," he said gently. "He's my kin; it would be like murdering my brother."

"Nice family," his friend muttered.

"Kilgharrah has been a pillar of strength and the source of constant support to me, Arthur. True, he can be a bit cryptic, and I'm sure it amuses him to speak in riddles, but for the most part he's been incredibly helpful. Saved my life a few times, too. And yours."

Arthur jerked his head in surprise.

"Just how long have you been fraternising with a dragon, _Mer_lin?"

"Longer than you'd be happy about," replied Merlin, shifting his gaze guiltily. "He... spoke to me on my very first day in Camelot, though of course I was unaware of the Dragon Lord link back then."

Merlin waited for the king to take in this latest information, knowing that it wouldn't be long before his brain put two and two together and came up with the unfortunate answer.

"I should have known," the king said bitterly. "You've told me so many lies that I'm only surprised I didn't work it out before. Twenty years that dragon was kept safely locked away. Twenty _years_. And then _you_ arrived. You set him free, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe this. I don't believe _you_."

"I had a good reason, I _swear_ it. I didn't have a choice, not if I wanted to save Camelot. Please, Arthur, you have to understand. You wanted the truth, and I swore I would give it to you. _No more lies_. That's what you said."

Arthur flinched.

"I can't help it if you don't like some of the things I've done, Sire," he quietly stated. "I've made mistakes; I'm just as human as you are. But never – not _once _– have I intended anything other than to protect you, and to protect Camelot. _Never_."

"Enough."

Merlin's heart shook at the weariness in his friend's voice.

"Arthur..."

"I said _enough_. No more. Not tonight. Get some sleep; I need to think."

Merlin nodded, and blew out a shaky breath. Arthur was right; they both needed a break. The warlock only hoped that the morning would bring with it some measure of relief for them both.


	6. Foolishly Loyal

**Once again, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited & followed - it's wonderfully encouraging! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, and that you continue to enjoy my extended interpretation of the series finale. I don't own Merlin...unfortunately. :(**

"_I said _enough_. No more. Not tonight. Get some sleep; I need to think."_

Arthur was in a state of complete confusion, his head awash with a hundred dizzying thoughts all at once. He couldn't even begin to process what he had just learned; there were just too many startling new pieces of information to absorb, each one more mind-blowing than the last. He watched his servant through half-closed eyes and brooded.

Merlin was walking slowly back to the campfire, his shoulders tense and his head bowed. Arthur had the strangest feeling that his friend was in as much shock as the king was, which seemed absolutely ridiculous. The servant crouched down, and then flinched. Arthur tensed, his warrior instincts breaking through his haze of bewilderment. He was in the process of reaching for his sword (though what he thought he could do in his present physical state was beyond him), when Merlin visibly slumped. The servant was staring at the fire. Suddenly, the dark-haired man stood up, grabbing his bed roll as he did so. Arthur watched with bewilderment as Merlin rearranged his belongings further away from the fire.

_What on earth was that about?_

Almost as soon as the question popped into his head, Arthur found that he knew the answer; his friend was removing himself from temptation. Merlin had admitted that he was drawn to fire whenever he was troubled, and by the looks of it he was wary of allowing himself to get too close to the flames.

Arthur found himself thinking of all the times in the past when he had seen his servant tending a campfire. Over the years, Merlin must have done this seemingly simple task hundreds of times, but Arthur had never given it any thought. Not that he _should_ have done, of course, because really, tending the fires had simply been one of Merlin's appointed tasks, especially when the knights were out on patrol. But Merlin's recent bucket load of revelations had given the king an entirely different perspective.

"_Fire is probably one of my worst fears."_

Arthur winced inwardly, but forced himself to really think about Merlin's words. His servant had sounded _ashamed_ when he'd admitted his fear, but Arthur hadn't really thought too much about it at the time. Now, as he observed the stranger before him, he allowed himself to consider not only the words that had been said, but the many words that had been _u_nsaid.

Merlin was a sorcerer, and in Camelot, sorcerers were _burned_.

Arthur felt a growing sense of horror as it dawned on him that his friend had been living in fear for as long as he'd known him. The king couldn't even begin to understand the stress that must have been a constant companion to the man before him; lesser men would have crumbled beneath such a weight. Merlin might be one of the scrawniest men Arthur had ever known, but he was apparently much stronger than he had ever given him credit for.

As this realisation burst through his mind, another one, even _more_ shocking, came relentlessly at its heels...

Merlin's skill with flames was instinctual. Arthur had guessed this even before his friend had admitted it; he'd noted the fact that his servant seemed hardly aware of what he was doing. It was glaringly obvious that Merlin's affinity with fire came as naturally to him as breathing.

Once again, it wasn't the magic itself that caused Arthur to flinch; it was the sudden understanding that flooded his entire being. The amount of control – the incredible strength of will – that Merlin must have used to repress his natural instincts was staggering. Had Merlin _ever_ truly relaxed his guard around him?

The blonde found his eyes unwillingly drawn back to his friend, who was now lying down on his bed roll. Even the darkness of nightfall couldn't hide the fact that his servant was far from sleeping. Arthur didn't think he had ever seen anyone who looked less relaxed than his friend did at the moment. To a casual observer, the man appeared to be resting, but Arthur could see how stiffly his servant held himself. He witnessed the twitching fingers, and the way Merlin's head subtly moved whenever a small sound echoed in the clearing. The man was clearly the very_ opposite_ of relaxed; his entire body was held in a state of tense alertness.

Now that he thought about it, Arthur realised that he had seen his servant in a similar state of tension before. Actually, he'd probably seen it _dozens_ of times in the past, but like so many things, he'd pushed it from his mind. He _did_, however, have a very clear memory of one of the few times he'd actually taken the time to question Merlin's mood.

They'd been on their way to Ismere, just after they'd taken their leave of Queen Annis. The men had set up camp for the night, and Arthur had been relaxing with his knights, talking and laughing with them. He could remember the feeling of something nagging at him, taking his attention away from the others. Merlin had been listlessly throwing stones in the pool of water at the edge of the camp, and the king had found himself leaving the knights and approaching his servant, his intention, for once, not to tease, but to offer comfort.

He'd noticed his friend's distress the previous night, when he had been silently staring at the flames in Arthur's bedchamber, and had tried to discover the reason at the time. Merlin had admitted his misgivings about their journey, and Arthur had been satisfied that he had sorted the problem out. Clearly, from the way his servant was still behaving, he had been wrong.

What had followed had been an example of what Arthur now realised was one of Merlin's rare moments of complete honesty. There had been several occasions over the years when Merlin's face had lost its habitual look of idiocy, and had radiated a wisdom that Arthur had, though outwardly teasing his friend about it, secretly admired.

That whole journey was littered with memories that were now shifting, with the king's recent knowledge, into an entirely new perspective.

"_Why are you so upset?"_

"_Morgana is powerful. She's dangerous."_

"_I know."_

"_And you don't care."_

"_Only about my men. They're more than friends, more than brothers. No matter what lies ahead of me, I won't abandon them, as I _know_ they would not abandon me."_

"_I understand. I wish I didn't, but I do."_

Even now, Arthur could remember the rush of fondness he had experienced at the time; not so much from the words themselves, but from the earnest and open gaze from his friend. Despite the fact that he now knew his servant was capable of complete duplicity, he knew without a doubt that the loyalty and affection that had literally radiated from his servant on that night had been stunningly and unequivocally true.

Which made Merlin's actions with the Great Dragon all the more difficult to understand. Why on earth would someone who was so _loyal_ release such a catastrophe into the heart of Camelot? Because Merlin _was_ loyal; in fact, Arthur was only just beginning to truly appreciate the depth of that loyalty.

_Releasing a dragon. Honestly._

Merlin might be loyal, but he was a fool. Arthur just couldn't decide whether his friend was a loyal fool, or _foolishly_ loyal. Either way, he felt something inside him settle as some of the anger gently melted away. It came as no surprise when he inevitably remembered someone _else _calling his friend a fool, and the events that had followed it. Arthur almost chuckled aloud as he fully appreciated how wily his servant truly was. The king didn't think he'd ever been as surprised as he'd been when he'd watched his hitherto clumsy friend juggle several eggs so effortlessly, recent events notwithstanding.

"_I have many talents. You've failed to notice them, that's all."_

The amusement fled as quickly as it had arrived, and the king gazed broodingly at his servant. He _had_ failed to notice, just as he'd failed to notice – or even appreciate – any number of things. He'd been perplexed many times in the past by the flashes of wisdom that his friend had sometimes displayed, but for the most part he'd been confident that Merlin was just a simple, happy-go-lucky man whose innocence - and astounding naivety – was all that there was to him. Oh, there was courage there, too, but Arthur had always assumed that it was the type of bravery that only came to the surface when circumstances called for it.

Arthur choked back a bitter laugh.

Merlin wasn't the fool; _he _was. His friend, far from being the simple person the king always believed him to be, was a complex man, with so many layers that Arthur wondered if he would ever be able to unravel them all. Fragments of conversations shot through his head all at once, each memory battering at him relentlessly...

"_I'm happy to serve you, Arthur, until the day I die."_

"_You don't know how many times I've saved your life."_

"_You don't have to sacrifice yourself, Arthur. I will take your place."_

"_Then I swear I will protect you, or die at your side." _

The words kept repeating themselves in Arthur's head, mercilessly stripping away the blinkers from his eyes, until all he was left with was guilt. He tried to move, wanting to physically back away from the rawness of his emotions, and was startled into hoarse cry of agony. Astoundingly, he had forgotten his deadly wound during his turmoil, and the fire that ripped through his chest stole his breath. Dimly, he heard his servant rush to his feet and hurry towards him.

"Arthur!"

The king gazed numbly at his friend, the deeply etched concern on his face bringing everything sharply into focus. He knew in that moment that forgiveness wasn't going to be as hard as he'd thought it would be. Somehow, he'd _always_ known it. After the initial shock had worn off, his first instinct may have been to distance himself from his friend, but he had nevertheless asked Gaius to send Merlin home; back to Camelot. Back to _Guinevere_. If he had truly been afraid of the newly confessed sorcerer, he would never have dreamed of sending him back to the woman he loved more than life. Even then, he'd trusted him, but had allowed his father's prejudice to blind him.

He knew he still had a way to go before he could fully let go of his feelings of betrayal, but he also knew that forgiveness _would_ come.

"_Arthur?"_

The king blinked himself out of his thoughts, and tried to reassure his friend.

"It's alright. I-I moved too quickly, that's all."

Merlin moved back a step, and Arthur could see he was inwardly battling with something. He watched as the dark-haired man clearly wrestled with his thoughts, the concern never leaving his features. He took what was clearly a nervous step back towards him.

"If you want, I could... help you again?"

The humbleness in Merlin's tone brought a fresh wave of guilt crashing upon the king, along with the feeling of shame. He still had many questions to ask, and he still had to work through his lingering feelings of anger and betrayal, but he also knew that he needed to start making some sort of reparation for his _own_ actions.

Before it was too late for either of them.

Merlin lowered his gaze and turned to walk away, but Arthur swiftly asked him to wait. His servant raised his eyes, obviously confused by the king's whispered command.

"If you could," he said abruptly, and then hastily gentled his tone. "That is, if you wouldn't mind...helping me. I would... appreciate it."

"No, of course I don't mind."

The king almost missed the whispered reply as he saw how much his request had altered his servant's body language. A hesitant smile was on Merlin's lips, and his eyes flared with hope. Arthur nodded to affirm his consent, and purposely allowed himself to relax; the last time Merlin had eased his pain, he hadn't really been prepared. This time he was filled with curiosity about what his friend was about to do.

Merlin knelt next to the king and placed his hands an inch or so above Arthur's chest. He moved them around for a moment or two, and the king realised, with some awe, that his servant was searching for the precise area that needed attention.

"There," he said, and turned to face Arthur for a moment. The stillness of his features bore testament to his concentration, and the softness of his gaze further illustrated the inherent compassion that was so obviously the very heart of Merlin's character. "Ready?"

The king nodded.

He watched as the gold flared to life in Merlin's eyes, and even as he dimly acknowledged the gentleness of the magic that flowed from his friend, he was flooded with warmth and light. He submitted to the feeling without struggle, and fully experienced the incredible waves of relief that poured from the gracefully arched hands above him.

"I _know_ this," he found himself saying, uncertain where the words had sprung from.

The flare of gold didn't diminish, but a small smile played on Merlin's lips as he completed his medicinal magic. Settling back on his heels, his friend rubbed his hands slowly on his trousers and waited, his head tilted to one side and a playful smile still dancing on his lips.

Arthur didn't know what his friend was waiting for, and his body was now so relaxed that he couldn't find the energy to think. He blinked stupidly, sensing that Merlin was battling to keep silent. He knew that Merlin had an answer for him, but somehow the king wasn't exactly sure what his question was supposed to be.

His friend's smile deepened, and a spark of the mischief that Arthur hadn't fully appreciated he'd missed so much lately lit up the servant's eyes. Then those impish orbs flashed with gold, and even as his friend gently cupped his hand before him, Arthur knew what he would see.

A beautiful sphere of bright light.

Arthur's breath caught, and he raised startled eyes to his friend. The gold turned to blue, but somehow the magic was still there, and a wave of acknowledgment passed between them.

"It was you," the king whispered.

Merlin tilted his head again, in what was fast becoming a familiar sight to the blonde.

"It was you," he repeated. "Even then, it was you."

Arthur felt his gaze pulled back to the magical sphere that was now close enough for him to be able to touch it. Tentatively, he raised his hand, brushing his fingers lightly against the orb. He was immediately revisited by the waves of warmth and light, and he jerked his gaze back to his friend.

"It's always been me, Arthur. Always."

Arthur finally lost the battle with his weariness, and felt his eyes close even as his hand dropped gently by his side. The last thing he heard before sleep claimed him were the soft words of his friend, spoken in a strangely foreign tone, but somehow piercing him with aching familiarity.

"_Sleep now, Arthur Pendragon. I will watch over you."_


	7. Two Sides of a Coin

**Hello! Thank you SO much for the follows, favourites, and the seriously awesome reviews I have had - I've smiled so much as I've read them. :) This chapter is slightly shorter than the earlier ones, and while it doesn't move the story forward time-wise, it's really the heart of the plot. This is Merlin's perspective of the events from the previous chapter. In the finale, Merlin seemed to radiaite a calmness after his initial panic and despair, and I wanted to expand on what might have happened to cause the change. I hope you enjoy this latest installment! **

**I really wish I owned Merlin, but I don't.**

Merlin knew he'd made a mistake as soon as Arthur had commanded him to stop speaking. At first, he had been excited when the king had asked him for answers; finally, _finally_, he was going to be able to speak without hiding anything. He'd known it was a risk to bring Kilgharrah to his friend's attention, but after revealing his magic, he couldn't help himself. He'd been battling an urge to blurt out every little detail of his whole life for the entire day. There were things – many things – that he was ashamed about, but after the long years of silence, Merlin was desperate to make Arthur aware of everything that had happened. To justify all of the lies he'd been forced to tell.

He knew he was being selfish; he knew that the king was in no fit state to withstand the many shocks that Merlin's confessions would heap upon him. And then he'd stupidly given in to his rage, causing his father's dragon to explode. The king had been terrified; that he had caused such fear in his friend had shaken him, more than he wanted to admit even to himself. But then, despite his wariness, Arthur had rallied, and consented for Merlin to magically ease his pain.

At that point, Merlin had wanted to scream. He'd wanted to claw at his head and release the terrible ball of agony that was crushing him; he'd wanted to do something – anything – that would relieve the pressure that was tearing at him. For despite Arthur's huge step forward towards accepting his magic, the warlock was all too painfully aware that shock, terror, and excruciating pain were likely the only reasons for the softening of Arthur's attitude. He needed his friend to accept him freely; not just because pain was dulling his wits.

It was killing him. It was slowly destroying every last bit of the hope that he had of the king ever truly accepting him.

"_Enough."_

Arthur's stern command bounced painfully through his mind as he reached his bed roll, and Merlin flinched as if it had been screamed at him. He glanced at the fire and felt his stomach dip; he knew he had to move as far away as he could. He was so distressed right now that he was terrified of what his magic would conjure, and he knew that Arthur couldn't cope with any more sorcery that night. Staring wistfully at the flames for a few seconds, the warlock gathered his bed roll in his hands and walked purposefully away.

He sensed Arthur's eyes upon him, but instinctively knew not to look at him; at least, not to _openly _look at him. Not willing to face the other way in case he was needed, Merlin compromised and settled into a position on his back. It was far from comfortable, but that was all to the good, for he had no intention of sleeping anyway. Sharpening his senses, he controlled his breathing so that he could concentrate on his surroundings; not only did he have to stay alert for any possible attacks, he also needed to make sure he was still able to monitor the king's injury.

At the thought of the cruel fragment of blade that was slowly murdering his friend, Merlin had to blink back the moisture that threatened to spill from his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was give in to his emotions, because he knew that if he did, he would never be able to regain control of them. He couldn't afford to allow himself any weakness right now; Arthur needed him to be strong.

"_Enough."_

Merlin wished that he could forget the word that had been uttered with so much pain and disillusionment. It was as if the king was still speaking to him, and every time he heard it, he berated himself for confessing his part in Kilgharrah's release. The worst thing about it was the fact that he hadn't _needed_ to do it. He could have been a little more circumspect with the truth; there hadn't been any need to tell Arthur of the dragon's survival. He'd forgotten himself for a second, lulled into a sense of ease by the wonderful normalness of sharing banter with his friend. If he'd only kept the dragon's name to himself, the conversation would have ended with Kilgharrah's departure from Camelot. One tiny slip and he'd undone _everything_.

"_Enough."_

Merlin twisted his fingers nervously. The flames of the fire were calling at his magic, and he struggled to keep it restrained. He was beyond tired, and his nerves were stretched to the point of snapping. Every rustle from the trees made him twitch, his body poised for immediate action. And all the while, he kept watch over his friend, sneaking glances from the corner of his eye every minute or so.

The king was still awake, causing Merlin's fingers to flutter even more. Arthur needed to _sleep_, to regain at least a small measure of energy so that he could manage the next day's journey. The warlock was terrified that the king would fade before they reached Avalon. They probably shouldn't have made camp, but Merlin had weighed the risks and decided that riding through the night would have weakened the king even further. Arthur could be cured on the sacred isle, but he had to survive the journey first.

Merlin flicked his eyes towards the king, and his panic increased another notch; Arthur was watching him, and Merlin pulled his gaze away, not wanting to analyse exactly what his friend was thinking to cause such a look of shock on his already pale features. The warlock's stomach dropped as a fresh wave of remorse stole over him; he should have kept his silence. The king needed to sleep, and all Merlin had done was condemn him to a restless night.

_I'm such an idiot. Foolish, foolish, _stupid _Merlin._

If he had been more careful with his words, Arthur would probably have been more receptive to another round of magical pain relief. There was little to no chance of that happening now; the king was far too stubborn, and too angry with his servant to allow him to accept any help. Once again, Merlin had backed himself into a corner when all he'd wanted to do was help.

He shouldn't have felt surprised; it was hardly the first time he had tried to do something good, only for things to end up a hundred times worse.

The warlock was pulled from his bitter thoughts by Arthur's muffled cry of pain. He was on his feet before he had chance to think, and rushed to his friend's side.

"Arthur?"

But the king was far away, obviously trying to breathe through a fresh burst of pain. Merlin felt his panic reach untold heights, and, stupidly, all he could think was that it hadn't been two days yet. Gaius had said two days. _Two _days, not one. Was the blade fragment reaching its goal _now_? Merlin forced his mouth to work and whispered his friend's name again, air rushing back into his lungs when the king blinked and looked at him directly.

"It's alright. I-I moved too quickly, that's all."

Merlin backed away, not sure whether to believe his friend. He needed to know for sure, but the only way he could find out was if he used magic again. His mind wrestled with the problem, weighing up the risks of offering his aid, or keeping his silence. Realising that Arthur's life was possibly in the balance, he decided to risk the king's wrath, and be damned with it.

He stepped forward and lowered his gaze, desperately hoping to convey his eagerness only to help, not to anger. His quiet words were met with a sickening silence, and Merlin had to bite his tongue to stop himself uttering a groan of despair. Turning away, he was suddenly stopped.

"No, wait... Merlin..."

The warlock paused, and his heart thudded painfully. There was something inexplicably wrong with Arthur's face, and it was only when his friend spoke that Merlin understood what it was that confused him. The blonde was not only accepting his help, he was _asking _for it. As if that itself was not shocking enough, Merlin was further astounded by the almost humble tone of the man before him.

_Arthur Pendragon. Being humble._

In the past, Merlin's first instinct would have been to laugh with glee, but amusement was the very last thing on his mind. The hope which had almost left him started to rise again, and he felt himself begin to fill with renewed resolve.

He gently lowered himself to his knees, inhaling deeply as he did so. Holding his hands above Arthur's chest, he began to search for the sword fragment, his magic deeply concentrated as he tried to discern how close it was to the king's heart. After only a few moments, his heartbeat steadied back to a more normal rhythm; _it was alright, there was still time_. The power of his relief was so strong that the warlock's magic responded to it, spreading through his entire body until Merlin could practically feel it seeping through his skin. He consciously allowed his loyalty and affection for the man at his side to spill free, and it pushed his magic to an even higher level. He knew his magic had never been stronger, and he was filled with the purest of joy, knowing that it was the bond with his friend that had pushed his magic to its peak.

_Two sides of the same coin._ This was how it was _supposed_ to be. Lifted by his magic being so completely in tune with him, the warlock turned to his king. He felt his magic pulse behind his eyes, but held the power back, changing its purpose. Gazing gently at his friend, his magic magnified every emotion that was coursing through him, until the air itself was saturated with the bonds of friendship, complete loyalty, and a deep and lasting faith.

"Ready?" the warlock asked gently.

The king nodded, and Merlin's magic poured out of him, drenching the king with everything it contained; everything _Merlin_ contained.

"I _know _this."

Merlin felt an incredible sense of _rightness_ flow through him at the king's words, and began to smile. Instinct took over, and sensing his magic had done its work, he pulled back, silently willing the king to reach into his memories. _Come on, Arthur, I know you have it in you._

The warlock could practically _see_ his friend struggling to compose his thoughts, and he knew the king still needed help. Confident that has magic had been waiting for this moment – this _perfect_ moment – to demonstrate its purpose, Merlin once again poured everything he had ever felt into his spell, and held out a hand.

The king's eyes found the ball of light almost before it appeared, and Merlin felt he would explode with wonder as he witnessed the sheer awe and acceptance that washed his friend's features free of pain. Not the physical pain that his magic had already aided, but all of the doubts, fear, and feelings of betrayal that had haunted his friend ever since Merlin had confessed of his magic. As Arthur turned his stunned gaze upon him, the warlock commanded the gold to retreat from his eyes, and released the glowing orb from his hand.

"It was you."

_Yes, Arthur. Believe it. Trust in it._

"It was you. Even then, it was you."

Merlin watched as the king tentatively reached out a hand and touched the sphere almost reverently. _See it, Arthur. Understand. Know that my magic only exists to protect you._

It was as if the king had heard Merlin's silent plea, and the blonde's head snapped back, his eyes betraying his shock. All the lies, all the deceit, all the hiding, it didn't matter anymore; nothing mattered more than the plain and simple truth that was now hovering between the two friends. It was simple, and it always _had_ been. Merlin only needed to say the words.

"It's always been me, Arthur. Always."

The king was now succumbing to the effects of the powerful magic used on him, and Merlin felt calmness spread through him. It had worked. Somehow, it had worked, despite the fact that the warlock hadn't even known what it was he was doing.

The king had needed to sleep, and his magic had reacted to that need. Merlin had instinctively poured everything he'd had into his initial spell, and he'd somehow known that the sheer amount of power he'd used was enough to force every last shred of pain from his friend's body. With the pain now gone, exhaustion was taking precedence, and even the stubbornness of a king was not enough to fight it.

Merlin silently rose to his feet, feeling his magic rise within him. The brightly glowing orb settled over Arthur's head, bathing the king in an almost mystical light. The warlock gazed with warm affection at his friend, and sent him into peaceful slumber. The words he spoke came straight from the heart of Merlin, but hidden in them was a command, ringing with the power and might of Emrys.

"_Sleep now, Arthur Pendragon. I will watch over you." _

The warlock watched closely for several minutes, making sure that the king was indeed sleeping peacefully. Satisfied by the even sounds of Arthur's breathing, Merlin inhaled deeply, then exhaled a drawn out sigh of relief. He was light-headed, both from the extent of magic that he had used, and the emotional giddiness that had followed the extraordinary flare of understanding he had shared with his friend. He gave a cursory scan of the area, but knew that he had no need to be worried. His globe of light would watch over Arthur, and it would nudge Merlin's magic if anything dangerous approached. The warlock trembled with fatigue, and felt his knees crumple beneath him. He blinked wearily, and just managed to summon Excalibur and place it in his friend's hands before darkness claimed him.

Merlin was already asleep when the fire spat out a profusion of magical sparks, and never saw the brightly glowing coin that spun in the air, a mighty dragon proudly etched on both sides of it.


	8. The Little Things

**Wow, this story is turning into an absolute _beast_! I initially estimated it would be around 20k words maximum, yet here it is, passing that figure, and it's still really only half way done!? Phew! Anyway, we've finally reached the second day of our boys' journey, and there'll be some familiar bits of dialogue during the second half of the story that I've obviously taken straight from the show. Once again, I thank you all for following, and for leaving me such wonderful words of encouragement. I'm seriously humbled and... _floored_... by the response. **

**I _still_ don't own Merlin. *sighs sadly***

A nagging ache in his chest slowly brought Arthur back to consciousness, and it took a few moments for the king to remember where he was. He couldn't recall ever having had such a peaceful night's rest, and had awoken expecting to be lying in his comfortable bed with Guinevere in his arms. He was strangely reluctant to open his eyes; he somehow knew that when he did, the nagging ache would become a deep pain.

Something was teasing at his memory, something that had prodded and poked at his mind even as he was sleeping. He couldn't remember dreaming, but he had flashes of... _something_... replaying through his head; images of _Merlin_, of all people. Why on earth had thoughts of his manservant plagued him throughout the night? The king found himself rolling his eyes, and the action forced his eyelids open.

His vision was a little blurred, but not so hazy that he didn't immediately see that he definitely _wasn't _in his own bed. His gaze sharpened, and the campfire a few feet away came into focus. There was little more than a flame or two left, having obviously burned itself out during the night. Arthur found himself sorry to see it go, though he wasn't exactly sure _why_. It wasn't as if he'd ever mourned the loss of a fire before. Feeling a sudden sense of unease, the king shifted his eyes and immediately found his gaze settling upon the sleeping form of his manservant.

_Everything _came rushing back with startling force, words and images pounding through his head so quickly that the king was dizzied by it; dragons, fire,_ magic..._

Merlin had magic. Merlin had _powerful_ magic. Even as memory returned, Arthur felt the stinging pain in chest sharpen, and the full weight of knowledge crashed over him as the past two days caught up with him. He was wounded, probably mortally so. Mordred's eyes, so filled with betrayal, hate, and a hint of unfathomable regret, flashed before him, and the king felt a fresh burst of disbelief that his former friend had dealt him such a deathly blow. Arthur was no where nearer to understanding how things could have come to this point than he was before, and even now felt the warring feelings of triumph and remorse that had coursed through him when he'd swiftly and mercilessly ended the young knight's life.

He knew he must have passed out on the battlefield, and he knew that somehow his manservant had found him and removed him to safety. When he'd awoken, he'd been surprised, yet _un_surprised at the sight of the raven-haired man before him. Questions had buzzed through his head like irritating flies; questions about the outcome of the battle, questions about his knights and how they had fared; questions about whether his queen had managed to escape without injury. But instead of these questions, Arthur had blurted out the one thing that had been haunting him ever since the moment Merlin had regretfully informed him that he wouldn't be accompanying his king during the most important battle in Camelot's history.

"_Where have you been?"_

Even now, Arthur wondered where his friend had disappeared to, though he was no closer to getting an answer right at this very moment than he'd been before. Merlin was sleeping, and Arthur had _no_ intention of disturbing him. The creases of concern that marred the pale features of his friend pulled at the king's heart, and Arthur again grimly noted the dark shadows beneath Merlin's eyes. The blonde forgot about his own injury – brushed it aside – as he absorbed the inescapable truth that he'd only guessed at before; Merlin was suffering, and had been suffering for an immeasurable length of time.

And the suffering was all for _him_. He still didn't fully understand the hows or the whys of it all, but when Merlin had released that incredible ball of light, Arthur had known with certainty that he and his servant were inexplicably linked, and that nothing would ever change that. It was strange how little this disturbed him; even just a few days ago, this would have embarrassed him beyond words. He was _Arthur Pendragon_, after all; a mighty warrior. But now, everything had changed, and it was all because of his idiotic, _fool _of a manservant.

Arthur had always known his friend was brave, and he had always known that he was probably his most loyal servant, but it was becoming increasingly clearer that Merlin had done many things – things that Arthur couldn't even _begin_ to guess at – over the years solely to protect the king's life, and the blonde acknowledged to himself that he would never be able to repay even a smallest amount of what he owed his friend.

"_Idiot_," he whispered fondly.

The ache in his chest was now becoming harder to ignore, but Arthur was still reluctant to disturb his friend. Despite his pain, he wanted to allow Merlin as much rest as possible; his friend looked exhausted, and it was the very least that Arthur could do.

The king shifted his weight and bit his lips to stifle a gasp of pain. Slowly, carefully, he used his elbows to push himself up slightly, enough so that he could take some of the pressure from his chest. His new position allowed him to see his friend fully, and he frowned. Something wasn't right about the way Merlin was positioned; in fact, Arthur couldn't see how anyone could sleep in such a pose. His servant's head was twisted awkwardly, and his legs were strangely bent. It dawned on the king that this was the way someone looked after a fainting spell; this wasn't someone who had settled gently into slumber, this was someone who had simply collapsed.

The king's first instinct was to check for injury, and his eyes frantically searched his friend for any visible sign that would indicate any wounds. There was nothing to suggest anything untoward; no conspicuous arrows poking out from his friend, no tell-tale blood. He flicked his gaze to his servant's chest, and was relieved to note that it was moving deeply and evenly. He was simply asleep.

As the relief poured through him, the king suddenly realised that Excalibur was clasped in his hand, and he blinked in confusion. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he hadn't been holding his sword when he'd passed out, so how the _hell_ was he holding it now? The blonde looked at his hand with bewilderment, and he realised that even while his friend had been in the midst of losing consciousness, his primary concern had been for his king.

Merlin's hand was still resting protectively over Arthur's fingers, keeping the sword firmly in place.

"_Idiot_," he said again, an unexpected moistness pooling his eyes.

It was a revelation to observe his friend as he slowly blinked to wakefulness a few minutes later. Arthur lowered his gaze so as not to alert the servant of his stare, and Arthur was able to freely watch as Merlin's eyes fluttered softly, and then moistened his lips. His friend yawned widely and turned his head to the king; Arthur forced himself to appear as calm as possible, not wanting his friend to realise he was awake. He closed his eyes fully, and heard his servant expel a tiny breath. The king felt a slight, but thoroughly reassuring pressure on his hand, then heard the unmistakable sounds of Merlin scrambling to his feet. He almost chuckled when the man muttered a curse under his breath, picturing his friend tripping over probably nothing more than his own feet.

He waited a minute or so, and opened his eyes a fraction; Merlin was busy by the campfire, which was now burning brightly again. His servant was currently stirring the cooking pot absent-mindedly, while his eyes were scanning the sky above. His friend was obviously worried about the time, and Arthur sighed as he realised he couldn't pretend to be sleeping any longer. Laying Excalibur down, he used his arms to push himself up, and couldn't disguise the inevitable cry that escaped his lips.

"Arthur!"

His servant hastily dropped the spoon and rushed to the king's side, his face filled with a mixture of fear and nervousness.

"You alright?" he asked.

The king grimaced.

"I'd love to say I was fine, but it... hurts. A _lot_."

Merlin immediately dropped to his knees and lifted his hands, but Arthur swatted them away impatiently. His servant recoiled, and Arthur inwardly cursed.

"I don't think it will be wise to ease it," he said gently, to the obvious astonishment of his friend.

"Why? I can help; you _know_ I can."

"I know. But you sent me into oblivion when you eased it last night, and I can't afford to let that happen again, not if I want to get back on a horse. Besides, the pain is good; it lets me know that I'm still alive."

The sorcerer was clearly doubtful of his king's words, and was quick to try and poke holes into Arthur's logic.

"Surely the ride ahead of us will be easier on you if you are able to do it more comfortably," he said firmly. "There's really no need for you to be suffering like this, my lord."

"No, Merlin. Let me keeps my wits about me, please," he said gently.

"At least let me look," said the servant stubbornly. He closed his eyes and flushed, obviously reluctant to admit what he was thinking. "Let me... see. Where the blade fragment is. We need to know how close it is to your... heart."

Arthur blew out a long breath. Once again, it wasn't the words that had been said by his friend that ran through the blonde's mind, it was the words that Merlin were keeping to himself; the words that so clearly said they needed to find out how much time was left before Mordred's killing blow led to its inevitable conclusion.

"Alright," the king conceded. "But none of that blazing light stuff, you understand?"

"_Blazing light stuff_?" said his servant, eyebrows raised.

"You know what I mean," said Arthur sternly. "Just check the damned fragment, _Mer_lin, and leave it at that."

Merlin visibly held back any further arguments, perhaps understanding that this was a battle of wills he was never going to win. He nodded grudgingly, and raised his hands over Arthur's chest. The king watched the face before him closely, observing the way the gold gently replaced the blue of the sorcerer's eyes, and the way the dark-haired man frowned with deep concentration. After a moment or two, his face relaxed slightly, but his friend still looked anxious as his eyes resumed their blueness, and he pulled his arms back to his sides.

"Well?" asked Arthur, trying to sound bracing, but knowing he'd failed abysmally. His friend met the king's eyes, his head imperceptibly moving side to side as he clearly measured his words.

"We have time," he said eventually. "But we should probably get moving soon. I'll get everything ready, and get you some food before we leave."

Arthur didn't reply, as his friend was already on his feet and setting about the tasks he had given himself. The king shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of the rather pressing urge that that been present ever since he'd woken up.

_Damn, he really needed to pee._

The blonde managed to twist his body around so that he could relieve himself a little more privately.

"Arthur, what are you doing?"

"Damn it, Merlin, can't a man even _pee_ in peace when you're around?"

Arthur hadn't meant to sound so angry, but the pain had multiplied by at least a thousand in his estimation, and it was difficult to control what came out of his mouth.

His friend flushed, and mumbled an apology as he turned his back. By the time Arthur settled back on his bedroll, he was filled with utter agony, and it was taking all of his strength not to call back his earlier words and beg his friend to help him after all. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that this was possibly going to be his last day of life, and he wanted – no, _needed_, damn it – to stay awake for it. No matter how much it cost him. He was filled with a determination to know as much as he possibly could about his friend, and to do his best to somehow make amends for his undoubtedly numerous failings.

Unfortunately, the pain made it nigh on impossible to speak without an edge to his voice, so when Merlin approached him with a steaming bowl of stew, he couldn't help the frustration that fairly screamed behind his words.

Merlin, the _sorcerer_ – probably the most _powerful_ sorcerer ever, according to Gaius – was performing yet another menial duty that was ridiculously beneath him. The man was a damn Dragon Lord, for crying out loud. Why on earth was he so _infuriatingly_ humble?

"This will be good for you," the idiot mumbled. "You need to eat."

"Why are you doing this?" the king burst out. "Why are you still behaving like a servant?" _Why are you so bloody humble?_

The sorcerer set the bowl to one side, and his face became infused with what Arthur could only describe as _peace_.

"It's my destiny," the servant said softly. "As it has been since the day we met."

"I tried to take your head off with a mace," said the king without thought, immediately recalling the cheek of his friend, which had, even then, impressed him far more than it had annoyed him. His friend smiled impishly.

"And I stopped you, using magic."

"You cheated!" said Arthur, humour lacing his accusation.

"You were going to kill me."

"I should have."

His friend lost his look of mischief, and Arthur saw the increasingly familiar wisdom return to his eyes.

"I'm glad you didn't. I do this because of who you are; without you, Camelot's nothing."

Arthur's humour faded under a cloud of pain and disillusionment; he suspected he was _far_ from being responsible for Camelot's greatness.

"There was a time when that was true," he said quietly. "Not now. There are many who could fill the crown." _Guinevere; Leon; any number of my knights. Even you, my friend._

"There will never be another like you, Arthur," Merlin stated firmly. Arthur felt a small smile pull at his lips. _Foolish idiot_, he thought, as his servant picked up the bowl again.

"Now, I _also_ do this because you're my friend, and I don't want to lose you," said Merlin quietly, love, loyalty, and irrefutable truth ringing in his words.

The king found himself opening his mouth automatically in order to take a spoonful of fragrant stew. Once again, he was speechless. He'd been awed by the power of the sorcerer during the battle at Camlann, and had been repeatedly stunned in the days since by every single thing that his friend had revealed. Every time he discovered something new about the servant, he was convinced it was _impossible_ to become any more shocked.

He was so very _wrong_.

The awe he felt at the moment was almost enough to stop his heart, and he realised that it wasn't the _magic_ that stunned him; it had nothing to do with _any_ of the things that Merlin had done over the years. Dragons, fire, _magic_... it was none of these awe-inspiring details. It was the little things that, had Arthur been standing, would have brought him to his knees. The unwavering affection; the selflessness, and the incredible way that his friend put Arthur first, time and time again.

The most powerful thing about Merlin wasn't his magic at all. It was his heart.


	9. Dragons, Duty and Destiny

**Whoops. I posted the chapter before a final read through, so I had to remove it. Sorry for any confusion! I'm sorry it's been a week since the last update, but this one was an absolute beast to write for some reason. Then I got the scene order muddled up from the finale, so I had to go back and remove a large portion before I could continue. Anyway, once again I thank everyone for following, and for the incredible reviews I have had. And to the guest who left a request (I'm sorry, I have no other way to reply to you), I hate to be the bearer of bad news, and I really wish I could say otherwise, but unfortunately this was always meant to be a canon fic, so Arthur's fate will be the same. **

**I don't own Merlin. If I did, I wouldn't let him out of my sight.**

* * *

Arthur had gone very quiet, and though it was slightly unnerving – because it meant that the blonde was probably thinking – Merlin was also relieved because it had allowed him to get half a bowl of nourishing stew into him. The warlock attempted to get his friend to take another spoonful, but had his hands swatted away impatiently for his trouble. Looking at the king carefully, Merlin nodded to himself and stood up.

"Ten minutes, then we're off," he said softly.

Arthur was still quiet, but at his distracted nod, Merlin quickly set about packing up their meagre supplies and readying the horses for the second day of their journey. He could feel the king's eyes following his every movement, but Merlin purposely allowed himself to relax, loosening his muscles, and performing his self-appointed tasks with a calmness that wasn't altogether genuine.

He could almost _hear_ the questions that were dancing on his friend's lips, and knew that the day ahead would _not_ be a repeat of the previous day's virtual silence. Part of him was dreading what he would have to reveal, but he was nowhere _near_ the level of panic that he had been in up until now, and knew that he would answer anything the king asked of him. As he strapped their belongings to the horses, Merlin wondered what sort of questions he would be asked first.

He tried putting himself in Arthur's shoes; would he be most curious about the magic? About the dragon? Or about the destiny that Merlin had hinted at? It was likely that the magic would come out the winner, but the warlock wondered if he was possibly underestimating his friend. Arthur had obviously been mulling things over; maybe it wasn't too much of a stretch to believe that the king might, in fact, have got his head around the magic already. The king had certainly shown no signs of anger or fear when the warlock had eased his pain.

Perhaps he was being overly optimistic; or perhaps he was simply allowing his hopes to get the better of him. In the king's position, Merlin would be asking about the destiny thing, no question; but Merlin was Merlin after all, and Arthur was... Arthur. Would the blonde have realised the importance of their earlier conversation?

"_Why are you still acting like a servant?"_

"_It's my destiny, as it has been since the day we met."_

Yes, that would definitely have piqued the king's interest, given that Arthur had already asked about the destiny thing previously. Then again, Merlin had said a _lot_ of things in the past day that would have given the king pause to think. And there was the whole dragon thing, too. The warlock had no doubt that his friend would want to dig a whole lot deeper into the reasons why Merlin would have set such a dangerous magical creature free to wreak havoc on Camelot. And of course, there was Morgana. Not to mention Mordred.

There were just _so many_ possible questions the king would ask of him, and Merlin was sifting through all that had happened in the last ten years, trying to discern what could be left out. Not that he was going to lie – no, he was done with that – but there was only so much he could explain in the short amount of time that they had. He tried telling himself that he would have long years ahead with his friend, time enough to explain _every_ little detail of _every_ little thing that had happened, but there was a tendril of fear lurking inside him that warned that this next day might be all the time he had left.

He didn't want to think about that; he didn't want to let that tendril thicken and grow until it strangled him with fear and grief, sucking all hope from him. He didn't want to give up, because if he did, then it meant that he'd already accepted Arthur's death.

It terrified him; it terrified him more than anything he had ever faced in the past. A life without Arthur was no life at all, not for him. But despite his terror, he forced himself to acknowledge that if his friend was truly beyond saving, the warlock needed for Arthur to accept things before he left him forever.

Perhaps it was selfish of him - in fact, the warlock _knew_ it was selfish – but somehow Merlin knew that armed with the full knowledge of their shared destiny, the king would perhaps go more peacefully into his endless slumber.

Merlin wanted nothing more than to see his friend alive and whole again, but if that wasn't possible, then he desperately wanted Arthur to not be _afraid_; to not go into death full of pain. When the warlock had poured everything that was _him_ into his magic the previous night, it was with full awareness of the unshakeable bond that was between him and the king. The magic may have been for _Arthur's_ benefit, but it had enveloped Merlin as much as it had his friend. The warlock had been flooded with peace and acceptance, and had felt the complete rightness of being at one with the other half of himself.

He wanted Arthur to experience that same feeling.

As he gently helped the blonde to mount his horse, Merlin had to hold back the urge to blurt everything out at once. It would do no good to bombard the king with all the details of the shared destiny that was bigger than them both. The warlock smirked. Merlin knew Arthur better than he knew himself; the blonde was obviously fixed on one train of thought, and the king would not get past that until he had answers, stubborn prat that he was.

The servant mounted his horse and clucked his tongue, easing the beast into a gentle trot. The king followed him, and Merlin could still feel his friend's eyes upon him. He blew out a resigned breath, and resumed his mental sifting of memories, composing answers to the possible questions that his friend would ask him. He subtly checked on the king every few minutes or so, and noted that while the blonde was slumped awkwardly in his saddle, his eyes were alert.

It was a good hour or so before the silence was broken.

"So... the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth, eh?"

_Ah. Destiny it was, then._

"So they say," he replied, wincing with embarrassment.

"I'm finding that a little difficult to comprehend, it has to be said."

"Yeah, well, it's never really sat that well with me either, Sire. It can be... uncomfortable... having all that power at your disposal."

"Handy, though," the king muttered, a look of surprise flitting across his face as he realised what he'd said. Merlin held back a small smile.

"Handy," he said, sending his friend an amused look. "You know, I've never really thought of it that way; but I suppose you could call it that."

"How _have_ you thought of it then?" asked the blonde, genuine curiosity lacing his words.

Merlin slowed his horse and pulled back so that he was level with the king, taking a few seconds to compose an answer.

"Truthfully?" he said quietly. "It's scary, Arthur. _Terrifying_, really, and not even because of the laws, though I freely admit that those laws have brought me out in a cold sweat more times than I want to think about."

The warlock paused to allow his words to sink in, before continuing.

"The thing is, it wasn't always like this... for as long as I can remember, my magic has always been a comfort to me, almost like a friend. There's such a feeling of, I don't know... _warmth_, I suppose... when I use it. I can't describe it; it's just... _right_. Normal, even. Like breathing."

The warlock was too busy trying to come up with a better explanation to notice the king wincing almost painfully at his words.

"I tried to curb it, you know," he said, staring directly at the blonde. "At first because of my mother, who has always been terrified that my magic would prove to be my death sentence. Then later, when I arrived in Camelot, Gaius lectured me endlessly about keeping my secret, and I really_ did_ do my best to be circumspect. But suppressing my magic is like holding my breath; I can do it for a little while, but then I have to let it go. My magic is part of me, Arthur; it isn't a _separate_ thing... I can't _choose_ whether or not to use it. Magic _is_ me. _I'm_ magic."

As he said the words, he thought of Balinor, and Merlin smiled softly to himself. _Thank you, father_.

"But... you have to_ study_ magic," the king said almost desperately. "Sorcerers don't go around doing magic all over the place, they study spells and..." Arthur waved his arm vaguely. "Whatever it is they _do_ to make themselves more powerful."

"Well, technically speaking, I'm not actually a sorcerer, my lord," he said uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck.

"What? Of course you are; you said it yourself!"

Both horses became skittish at the king's sudden outburst, and Merlin muttered soothingly to the beasts before replying.

"I know I did, but it was the easiest thing to say to you at the time to get you to understand," he said patiently, before shrugging his shoulders self-consciously. "I'm a bit of an oddity."

"Now _that_ I _can_ understand," said Arthur sarcastically. Merlin rolled his eyes.

"Even with _my _kind," he said, he clarified. "Sorcerers, as you said so _eloquently_," Merlin couldn't help inserting his own sarcasm, and smiled at Arthur's glare of annoyance. "Sorcerers _do _study the art of magic, but I've never really had to do that. Oh, I research different spells and such, but most of what I do is instinctual. I rarely have to incant a spell, or really think about what I'm doing. It just sort of... happens."

"Why does this scare me more than anything else you've said so far?" muttered the king darkly. "I don't think I want to know what you're capable of doing when you actually engage your brain."

"It's not as bad as that, my lord," he replied, chuckling despite himself. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am, and while I _do_ admit to being more than a bit clumsy, and sometimes even _reckless_, my magic is very definitely not like that. But we're straying from the point."

"We are?" said the king doubtfully. "Personally, I thought we were right on track. We were establishing that you are odd, clumsy, and _completely_ idiotic. It's the first thing that's made sense to me in the last few days."

Merlin scowled.

"And _there's_ the Merlin I know," said Arthur, sounding almost relieved.

"Most amusing, my lord," the servant bit out.

"Alright, no need to pout," said the blonde, clearly stifling a chuckle. "If you're not a sorcerer, what _are_ you?"

"I'm not sure I want to tell you now," he huffed back, easing back into the familiar banter and beginning to enjoy the conversation.

"Merlin."

"Well, if you're going to poke fun, then I'm not sure I..."

"Merlin!"

"Alright," he relented, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a sorcerer, I'm a warlock."

The king looked at him suspiciously.

"You just made that word up, didn't you?"

"No!"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"No, seriously, this is a real word, my lord, I promise."

Arthur peered into his friend's eyes for a few moments, apparently satisfied that the man was being serious.

"Explain," he commanded.

"A warlock is someone who is _born_ with magic, my lord. Sorcerers have to study to be able to practice magic, warlocks don't."

It wasn't the first time Merlin had mentioned his life-long magic, but he was positive that this _was_ the first time that the king actually paused to consider just how different Merlin was when compared to other magic-users.

"So warlocks are... an oddity?"

"You could say that," he said dryly.

"Just how _much_ of an oddity?"

"It's rare," he hedged. Now that they were getting to the heart of it, Merlin was feeling nervous again.

"_How_ rare?"

"Pretty sure I'm the only one," he mumbled.

"Merlin, there are many things that I'm fairly sure I don't know about you," said the king sternly. "But after ten years, I've learned that when you mumble, it's not good. What aren't you telling me?"

The warlock licked his lips, trying to pull his thoughts together so that he could form words that his friend would understand. It wasn't as if he could say, _Arthur, you're the Once and Future King, I am Emrys, and we've been prophesized for centuries as being destined to bring back magic and unite all the people of Albion. _

That would go down well, he thought, somewhat hysterically. No, he needed to explain it more simply. With a flash of insight, he realised the best way to do this was to explain it as it had been explained to _him_, so many years ago.

"Arthur," he said firmly, looking directly at his friend. "You know the dragon?"

"Which one?" drawled the king, sarcasm again evident in his voice. "The one you told me was dead, the one you shooed off at Camlann, or one of those sparkly things you pulled from the fire?"

"Er, the first one," he replied, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "Kilgharrah."

"Not likely to forget _him_, am I?"

"Er, right. Well, it was Kilgharrah who first told me the full truth about who I was. Not that I believed him right away, of course, because honestly, it was a bit overwhelming."

"Overwhelming," repeated the king stupidly.

"Well, yes," said Merlin, surprised. "Of course it was. It's a bit unnerving having a stranger tell you things about yourself that you had no idea about."

"Of course," said the king faintly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You were overwhelmed by what the dragon _said_, but _not_ overwhelmed that it was an actual _dragon_ speaking. This explains _so_ much about you."

"Well, I was a _bit_ surprised," he said truthfully, a smile pulling at his lips. "But strange things tend to happen to me quite a lot, so I wasn't really shocked. Plus, he didn't scare me. I knew even then that he meant me no harm."

"You weren't scared?"

"No. Not by Kilgharrah, anyway. What he _said_, on the other hand, well... that _did_ scare me. Though it was a while before I actually grasped what he was saying. Dragons, my lord, are _extremely_ fond of being cryptic. I had no idea what he was talking about for most of the two years that we spoke prior to his release."

"Well, you always _were_ an idiot."

Merlin rolled his eyes.

"I defy _anyone_ to understand the words of a dragon when his speech is full of riddles and half-truths, my lord, even you. Anyway, it was Kilgharrah who first told me who _you_ were."

Arthur visibly jumped. "Me?"

"_The Once and Future King_," the warlock said firmly, smiling.

"The _dragon_ called me that?"

"Among others, yes. It wasn't Kilgharrah who named you this, though; he was just the first to bring it to my attention. He was also the first to tell me that it was my duty to protect you, no matter what the cost. And I can tell you, my lord, that I was _really_ not impressed when he passed along _that_ nugget of information. I'd already met you, and as far as I was concerned, you were the biggest prat in the world."

"You didn't exactly endear yourself to me when we first met, either," muttered the king. "Although, I suppose I must concede that you did rather stand out from the crowd."

Merlin grinned at the king, and Arthur rolled his eyes. There was silence for a while before the king rolled his eyes again and caused the grin to disappear from the warlock's lips.

"What?"

"The Once and Future King?" drawled the king. "Dragons speaking cryptically? Duty to protect me?"

"Oh, right. Well, it was strange, I have to admit. When I saved your life the first time, I was unaware of how significant that was going to be. It was purely instinct, but I suppose destiny had a hand in it even then. I was, as I said, _far_ from impressed by the duty Kilgharrah seemed to believe was mine and mine alone, but I think even before I accepted it, I knew it was true. Then Uther made me your manservant, and that seemed to prove Kilgharrah's words."

"I don't understand. How, exactly, was becoming my servant _proof_ that the dragon was speaking the truth?"

"Lots of reasons," shrugged the warlock. "I wasn't even _from_ Camelot, and had absolutely _no_ experience of serving the nobility. It shouldn't have happened. It pains me to admit this, my lord, but even_ I_ know that plenty of people were more than a little peeved that I had gained such a privileged position in the royal household." Merlin gazed slyly at his friend. "Idiots, every one of them, of course."

The king raised an eyebrow at the insolence, and shook his head slightly.

"The biggest thing that proved Kilgharrah's words was the timing, though. For me to be in_ exactly_ the right place at _exactly_ the right time in order to save your life... well, it was pretty significant. At least,_ I_ always thought so, anyway. After that, saving your life became a daily habit."

"Daily?"

"Well, perhaps not _daily_," he conceded. "Though honestly, sometimes it felt that way."

Arthur slumped a little, and the warlock bit his lip. Perhaps he'd sounded a little bitter, though he truly hadn't meant to. The king was looking tired, both physically and mentally.

"We'll stop for a little while, my lord. The horses need seeing to."

Arthur nodded distractedly, and the servant dismounted his horse and tied it to a tree. He helped his king to the floor, and led him to a fallen log, gently settling his friend into a sitting position.

"Try to rest; we won't be stopping for long. I just want to water the horses and let them graze for a while."

Merlin put action to his words and gave his friend a little space, busying himself with the simple tasks he had given himself. He moved quietly and efficiently, and chose not to interrupt Arthur's obviously whirring thoughts with any more words. It was clear that the blonde was weakening, and that the journey itself was taking a terrible toll on the king's strength. Not for the first time, Merlin wished fervently that his friend was not so stubborn. He knew it would be useless to offer his help again, even though it was stupidly obvious that the king was in extreme pain.

Merlin grabbed a waterskin, and was about to approach the blonde to suggest they get moving again, when his friend began to topple. The warlock sped to his side immediately.

"Arthur, you need to hold on," he said firmly, wiping the beads of sweat from the king's face. "One more day. _One more day_..."

The warlock used his slight frame to support the king, and began unscrewing the waterskin, never taking his eyes from his friend's increasingly grey features.

"Why did you never tell me?" the king asked, sounding so lost, and _young_ – almost childlike – that Merlin had to curb the urge to wrap his arms around his friend and comfort him.

"I wanted to, but..." he broke off, not sure he could put into words how he truly felt.

"What?"

"You'd have chopped my head off," he said impishly, somehow knowing that a little dark humour was called for. He smiled softly as the king smirked, and managed to get some water into the blonde.

"I'm not sure what I'd have done," Arthur mused, and Merlin knew that the words were spoken from the heart. He straightened his shoulders and admitted to the truth that was buried in him.

"And I didn't want to put you in that position."

The warlock looked directly at his king, and Arthur blinked, understanding the words that were behind his servant's simple statement. Merlin knew his friend well; given the choice between upholding Uther's laws, and saving his friend's life, Arthur would have felt he was betraying someone no matter what he did. Despite his strength, his courage, and his legendary battle skills, the king was, at heart, a compassionate man. A choice like that would have hurt him immeasurably.

"_That's_ what stopped you?" breathed the blonde.

Merlin felt his magic bubbling behind his eyes, and once again changed the way it was channelled. Making sure to keep the gold far away from the blue, he allowed the truth of Emrys to infuse his next words with simple, but unquestionable honesty.

"Some men are born to plough fields, some live to be great physicians; others to be great kings. Me? _I was born to serve you, Arthur_. And I'm proud of that. And I wouldn't change a thing."

The king gave a small start, and blinked dazedly. The warlock gave his friend's shoulder a squeeze and stood, helping Arthur to his feet.

"Ready?" he asked gently, though it wasn't really a question, and was already moving when Arthur nodded, a curious mix of humbleness and trust creasing his features.


	10. I am Emrys

**Woot! Another - albeit slightly shorter (a mere 2k words, oh well) - chapter in one day! I was a bit... meh... with the last chapter, mostly because I spent days on it and just really struggled to get it out. _This_ one, however, practically wrote itself in a couple of hours, and I'm much happier with it. Odd how that happens... anyway, here you go. I'm sorry it's shorter, but I need to be in Merlin's head for the next bit, and I prefer to keep the perpspectives clearly defined by chapter breaks. I may attempt the next bit tomorrow, but I might not be able to get anything else posted until next weekend again. I'll try to post mid-week if at all possible, though. As always, thanks for the lovely reviews and the wonderful support - _nothing_ is more motivating!**

**I don't own Merlin. Which depresses me greatly. *sigh***

* * *

Arthur Pendragon was a mighty warrior. He'd fought in countless battles, defeated numerous enemies, faced mythical beasts, and inspired fear in the bravest of men. Above all, Arthur Pendragon was a _king_. And he felt uncomfortable. _Very_ uncomfortable.

Kings, after all, weren't _supposed_ to feel humbled.

And yet, as he observed the dark-haired man riding a few feet ahead of him, he realised that humbled was how he felt. It was rather alarming, if he was being honest with himself. And if he was going to be completely truthful – which he supposed he _should _be, if only to himself – then he should probably admit that he was starting to feel an unwavering faith in his friend.

Truly, it was staggering. Kings were not _meant_ to have all these feelings for lesser mortals. Uther had drilled in to him one simple fact; nothing and _no-one_ was more important than a king. It didn't matter what a person did, or what they sacrificed, the fact remained that if it was in aid of a king (or a prince, as he'd been at the time), then it was perfectly fine. A life – _any _life – was nothing when compared to preserving the Pendragon line.

Arthur hadn't really agreed with his father, but he'd nodded and repeated Uther's views as and when it was required. But it wasn't until now that he fully appreciated just how wrong his father was. His friend – his stupid, brave, idiotic _fool_ of a friend – was quite possibly the noblest, and most worthy person he had ever known, princes and kings notwithstanding

And the king was humbled by it. By the sacrifices his servant had made, by the incredible selflessness that had spurned his actions over the years, and by the loyalty that damn near radiated from every inch of his friend's gangly frame.

The king was humbled because he could not _begin_ to understand what he had done to inspire such faith and devotion. Oh, his friend had mumbled something about destiny and duty, but for the first time ever – when it came to _Merlin_, anyway – Arthur was not fooled. He'd seen the strength of the genuine affection that burned in the servant's eyes even more brightly than the gold light that signified his friend's magical abilities.

He was _humbled_, and he needed to understand.

"Why did you stay with me?" he asked abruptly, causing the warlock to look back over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised in a remarkably Gaius-like way.

"I'm not sure I..."

"At the start," the king clarified. "Why did you stay? It was plainly obvious that we didn't get along, and with Camelot's laws on sorcery, surely it would have been better for you to leave? Come to think of it, why the hell did you even _come_ to Camelot? What was Hunith _thinking_?"

Normally, Arthur would have felt a little embarrassed at the way he'd sounded so protective of his servant's well-being, but Merlin's face showed none of teasing mockery that it might have done in the past. If anything, his features softened, which only caused Arthur to feel even _more_ humbled, if that was even possible.

_What was it about this man that caused him to think and feel as much, if not _more_, than even Guinevere could?_

"Destinies are troublesome things," said his impish friend, smiling wryly.

"That bloody dragon isn't the only one who's cryptic," he muttered to himself, glaring at his servant, who was currently choking on a laugh. "That's not the first time you've said that ridiculous phrase. Explain yourself."

Humour quickly left his friend's face, and was replaced with an expression that Arthur couldn't put his finger on.

"It really _is_ all about the destiny, my lord. Or at least, it started that way. I've told you it was my duty to protect you, but I haven't told you _why_. I think – I _hope_ – you're ready to hear it now."

Merlin said it as a statement of fact, but the king heard a nervous question behind the words, and he responded to it with a nod.

"You're the other half of my soul, Arthur," the warlock said simply.

Arthur's immediate reaction was to reprimand his friend for being such a _girl_, but something in his friend's eyes held him back. He felt a shiver travel down his spine, and knew with absolute certainty that his friend was about to say something that was incredibly important.

"Centuries ago, the druids foretold of a mighty warrior who would join with the most powerful sorcerer ever to grace the earth. These men – such _opposites _of each other – would combine their strengths and form an unbreakable bond that would rival even the closest of brothers. These men – _these two halves of one soul_ – would be powerful enough to shatter even the deepest of prejudices, and destroy the fear and the hatred that existed between all people, magical or otherwise."

Merlin never broke eye contact as he spoke, and Arthur was utterly transfixed. He friend's voice was deeper than usual, and was layered with wisdom beyond anything in the king's experience. It was the voice that Arthur recognised as Merlin's _true_ voice; the one when his friend wasn't being foolish, bumbling _Merlin_, but wise and truthful _Merlin_. The king was suddenly revisited by the memory of his friend using that very same voice, not so very long ago.

"_How did you know this place was sacred?"_

"_It's obvious."_

"_Pretend it isn't."_

"_Everything here... is so full of life. Every tree; every leaf, every insect. It's as if the world is vibrating; as if everything is much more than itself."_

"_You feel all that?"_

"_Don't you?"_

At the time, the king had been curiously moved, enough to curb his natural instinct to tease his sensitive friend. He was powerfully reminded of that conversation right now, and was again moved by the words of his friend. They seemed to come from the very depths of him, and Arthur knew that the servant was speaking from his very heart and soul. He raised his eyes and met the fathomless blue of his friend's, noting the curious tilt of the man's head that always seemed to accompany something that would knock the king off balance.

_There was more. _

Even as Arthur thought the words, the warlock's eyes flared momentarily with some indefinable light. Not the glow of gold, which the king realised he was getting rather used to, but something else. _Something more_.*

"You're the _most powerful sorcerer to ever grace the earth_, I presume," he said awkwardly, since his friend was clearly waiting for him to say something. The warlock's lips quirked into a half smile as he nodded.

"And _you're_ the mighty warrior," said his friend, watching him closely.

_He wants something from me_, the king realised. He could practically feel his friend poking and prodding his mind, ludicrous as that seemed. Something occurred to him then, and he didn't know if he'd thought of it himself, or if his friend had somehow managed to plant the idea in his head. Either way, the words that spilled from his lips made him feel as if he was stood on a precipice; there was no looking back any more, they could only go forward. Towards a truth that he knew would shape his future, no matter how much life he had left in him.

"You said they call me the _Once and Future King_," he whispered, trying to speak with a suddenly dry mouth. "What do they call _you_?"

And there was that light again, only this time Arthur thought he understood what it was that glowed fiercely in his friend's eyes. Triumph. Absolution. Peace. _Truth_.

"I am Emrys."

"Emrys," he breathed, feeling strangely calm. "Why do I get the feeling that I already knew this?"

"That would be the destiny, my lord."

An answer that should have annoyed him, the blonde thought, but somehow... didn't.

"There's another description that is widely associated with us," said his friend quietly, who was suddenly right beside him, leaning over to halt the king's horse gently. "I used to scoff at it at first, not really understanding what it meant. Kilgharrah was the first to mention it, though I believe his words may have been influenced by the druid prophesies."

There was a slight pause, and Arthur could see his friend gathering his thoughts.

"He said that we were two sides of the same coin."

Arthur was still struggling to comprehend why he felt such a nagging familiarity with the name _Emrys_, and he blinked stupidly at the man next to him.

"What?"

"When I said you were the other half of my soul, I meant it. We're the same, Arthur. You may be a king, and I may be a commoner, but we're the same for all that. Two halves of one soul, two sides of one coin; however you describe it, it all boils down to one thing. You were born to unite Albion, and I was born to help you do it. We were linked before we even came into being. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for your great destiny, and I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. _We're the same_."

The words were possibly the strangest he had ever heard in his life, but some part of him immediately recognised them as being utterly true. He laughed giddily, feeling a weight lift from his heart, and was floored once again by the complex man before him, who was a riddle of opposites that somehow still managed to make sense.

His friend was idiotically wise, and powerfully humble. He was a strange combination of elderly knowledge mixed with childish innocence, blindly embracing a fate that would scare the hell out of even the bravest of knights.

As his servant clucked his tongue and gently kicked his horse into a trot, Arthur urged his own horse forward and contemplated the enigma that was his friend. He was again confronted with another startling contradiction to his earlier opinions; Merlin looked, for lack of a better word, graceful. _Merlin _and _graceful_ were two words that Arthur would never have put in the same sentence before today, and yet strangely he knew that it was _exactly_ the right word after all.

He had to stifle another wry chuckle at his thoughts as he pictured the many times his servant had displayed his inherent propensity towards clumsiness. Only Merlin could be the most powerful sorcerer in the world, yet still manage to fall over nothing more than fresh air. _Idiot_.

The idiot in question suddenly came to a halt, holding his palm up in warning.

"Saxons?" the blonde whispered, spotting the smoke in the distance that had obviously alerted his friend. Merlin didn't reply immediately, and the tell-tale little jerk of his head told Arthur that his servant was doing something magical.

"They're long gone," the servant muttered.

"How do you know?" the king asked curiously. He honestly couldn't see how his friend could _possibly_ ascertain the amount of time that had elapsed since the Saxons had departed.

"I can... see the path ahead," was the reply, and though Arthur could only see the back of his head, he knew that his friend was amused.

_See the path ahead_? How in all that was sane was that even _possible_? And why was Merlin so damned amused? _Idiot._

Though, now that he thought about it, he should probably think of a new insult for his friend. Remorse attacked him anew, and he squirmed with it. Guilt was another thing that a king wasn't supposed to feel.

"So you're not an idiot then," he said, his words not coming out quite the way he'd intended. "That was another lie." He winced_. Damn_. That hadn't come out right, either. Where was the teasing tone that he had used so often in the past?

He saw his friend flinch a little, but when he turned to look back at him, the king was relieved to see the wonderful, _blinding _grin that was just so... _Merlin_... light up the face before him.

"No," his friend said cheekily. "It's just another part of my charm."

Arthur shook his head. _That it is, Merlin, that it is_.

* * *

**A/N *_Something more_. A small nod to the awesomeness that is CaptainOzone, whose beautiful stories - particularly _Something More_ - inspired me enough to climb out of my lazy bubble and start writing again.**


	11. The Warlock and the Witch

**OMG, why did nobody _tell_ me about the awesome deleted scenes and bloopers archived on Youtube? I dearly wish they were of better quality so that I could transcribe the delicious angsty-ness of those deleted little gems - the plot potential in them is virtually limitless!**

**Anyway, here's the next bit, earlier than expected, and I feel I should warn you that Merlin has a completely unexpected (not to mention totally unplanned) breakdown in this chapter. I have _no_ idea why, but sometimes the words just type themselves. Also, I've had some lovely reviews yet again, and I'm seriously grateful for each and every one of them. Thank you so much! **

**I love Merlin to bits, but sadly don't own even an inch of his adorably gangly frame...**

"_So you're not an idiot then. That was another lie."_

Merlin's first reaction to the damning words was to tense up, but almost as soon as he'd done so, he understood that Arthur was attempting his usual prattish humour, but was hampered by the obvious pain he was in. So Merlin reverted to his familiar habit of defusing a potentially tense situation and, peeking over his shoulder, delivered a cheeky quip to his royal friend.

"No, it's just another part of my charm."

The king's mouth turned upwards slightly in appreciation of the words, and Merlin's grin stayed firmly in place as he urged his horse forward.

It was incredible how relaxed he felt at the moment, considering how dire the situation was. Arthur hadn't said anything yet, but the warlock somehow knew that the relationship between them was almost fully healed. The king's reaction to the revelation of their shared destiny had been all that he'd ever hoped for, and more. The blonde was usually a master at keeping his emotions hidden, but Merlin always knew what was on his friend's mind, no matter how much Arthur tried to hide it.

The warlock had felt a blanket of calm settle upon him when he'd told the king of the prophesy that bound them so closely together, and he knew that his friend had felt similarly. The air had fairly buzzed with magic, though the warlock hadn't used anything more than words to impart the information.

No, the magic hadn't been the result of any spell; it was as if destiny itself had been singing with joy.

The king was very quiet again, and the second nature that had Merlin checking on his friend every few minutes told him that Arthur was thinking again, although this time he couldn't detect any negative vibes from the blonde. Well, except for pain, that is; but it was physical pain that was causing the pinched expression on the king's face, not the emotional kind.

Merlin schooled his expression to mask his concern and pulled his horse to a stop. He waited for Arthur to catch up with him and reached out a hand to gently halt the king's mount.

"How are you holding up?" he asked quietly. "We could stop again for a short while if you wish?"

Arthur's grateful gaze pierced him for a moment before he replied.

"I'd love to stop. I'd love nothing more than to get off this horse and close my eyes for a while. Better yet, to close my eyes and wake up in my own bed, with Guinevere beside me, and this whole nightmare over."

"Arthur..." he whispered, stricken by the deep grief that he saw in the blonde's eyes.

"No, Merlin, I don't mean _you_. _You're_ not my nightmare. This... _pain_... is my nightmare. This whole _situation_ is my nightmare. How did it come to this? It should _never_ have come to this."

"Arthur, come on, we'll rest for a while, and things won't seem half so bad after some food... you known how grumpy you get when you're hungry..." The warlock babbled, the knot of panic returning to his chest with a vicious swiftness.

"No," said Arthur, reaching out awkwardly to pat his friend's shoulder. "I know we can't spare the time. We move on."

"But..."

"_We move on_."

Merlin knew that tone, and it spoke volumes. The king's strength might be waning, but his stubbornness apparently had a will of its own.

"I suppose you're right," he said grudgingly, peering into his friend's eyes carefully. "As long as you're sure."

"I'm sure. Stop being such a _girl_, Merlin. I'm fine." The king rolled his eyes and amended his words. "Well, maybe not _fine_, but you know what I mean."

Merlin tried to smile at the blonde, but knew it was a wasted effort. He was worried, and the king_ knew_ he was worried. The warlock didn't want to add to his friend's anxiety – though obviously Arthur was more than aware of how precarious the situation was – but Merlin wasn't nearly as accomplished in hiding his emotions as he wished.

"Merlin."

The voice was so gentle that Merlin hardly recognised it. He glanced warily at the blonde and felt his face twitch.

"Worrying won't change anything, you know."

The warlock's mouth twisted into a wry grin, and he nodded slowly.

"I know," he sighed. "But... but..."

"But what?"

"I've been worrying for so long now, Arthur... it's a difficult habit to break. I'm not sure I could do it even if I _wanted_ to."

"Ah. Right."

The king was obviously at a loss for words, and Merlin knew that he needed to do something quickly, before he let his emotions get the better of him and he started blurting out all manner of things that would embarrass them both.

"Alright then," he said as cheerfully as he could manage. "Get moving, you stubborn cabbage-head."

"Wh-what?" his friend spluttered.

"You heard me, get moving. Honestly, my lord, didn't you just _say_ that we couldn't spare any more time?"

The king pushed lightly at his arm, and Merlin heard the king mutter an exasperated '_Idiot_' at him, which made him smile for a second, then frown as he contemplated the rapidly shifting moods of the man beside him.

It was clear that shock was beginning to get a firm grip on the king. For a man who had trouble expressing even the simplest of emotions, the blonde had managed to portray fear, doubt, apathy, compassion, and despair in the last five minutes. The tortuous path of Mordred's cursed blade fragment was unrelentingly tearing his friend to pieces, both physically and mentally.

The warlock blew out a breath and snuck a look at his friend; he really should check on fragment's position again.

"Stop," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Don't panic, I just want to check something."

Before the king had chance to form a reply, Merlin placed a hand on his friend's shoulder to reassure him, and raised his other hand to gently sweep the air in front of Arthur's chest. He found the fragment immediately, but kept his hand moving to allow him a moment to compose himself.

"I don't have much time, do I?" asked the blonde.

"What?" he replied, concern adding a bite to his voice. "Don't be stupid. Of course we have time."

The servant lowered his hands and thrust the reigns of his friend's horse back into Arthur's grasp, turning away abruptly to kick his horse into motion.

"I know you're lying to me, Merlin."

_Shut up, Arthur._

"I'm not a complete fool, my friend. I can _feel_ how close the fragment is to my heart. I don't need magic to tell me that I'm almost dead."

"_You're not dead yet_," the warlock growled, unable to stop himself twisting in his seat and glaring furiously at his friend. "You're _not _dead yet, Arthur, and as long as we don't give up, you're _not _going to die."

With a sharp flick of his wrist, the warlock pushed his horse forwards, picking up the speed as he did so. A few minutes passed before the hesitant words of his friend brought him out of his angry reverie.

"How does it work?"

"What?" he said stupidly. _How does what work?_

"The blade... _Mordred's_ blade... it was just a normal sword, yet somehow I can still feel the sting of it. It wasn't a mortal blow, not at the time. Yet it's still managing to kill me."

Merlin was baffled; he really thought Arthur had understood.

"Didn't Gaius explain?" he asked.

The king blinked, looking just as confused as Merlin felt.

"I think he tried to," said the blond quietly. "But I was...preoccupied... at the time. I didn't really take it in."

The warlock blew out a breath.

"You understand there was magic involved, right?"

The king nodded. "Obviously."

"The blade was infused with the magic of a dragon's breath, my lord. Magic at that level is very powerful; there's little that can outrank it."

"Not even you," said the king wryly.

"No, not even me," he agreed sadly. "Which is why we need to get to Avalon."

The warlock thought that was the end of the conversation, but something else was clearly playing on his friend's mind.

"I'm assuming that Mordred was merely a tool of Morgana's."

The warlock turned surprised eyes to his king. _Where was he going with this?_

"Why would she do that?"

Merlin immediately knew that the king wasn't _only_ referring to the enchanted blade; he was still unbelievably hurt and confused by every single thing that Morgana had done since she had turned her back on her friends.

"Morgana is riddled with bitterness and rage, Arthur. She's not the Morgana you grew up with, not anymore. Magic came into her life, and she chose to allow her fears to corrupt her."

"They didn't corrupt _you_," the blonde said softly.

Merlin nodded his thanks at the king's words, and smiled fleetingly.

"I wasn't the King's ward," he pointed out. "Morgana both loved and feared Uther, and when she realised she had magic, she was terrified."

Merlin raised his eyes and found the king's gaze fixed on him, concentrating on his every word. He looked away guiltily and blinked the sudden moisture from his eyes.

"I tried to help," he said painfully. "Kilgharrah had already warned me that she would play a part in your downfall in the future, but I didn't want to believe him. You must understand, this was before I came into my Dragon Lord abilities, so I didn't altogether trust the dragon back then."

The king gasped audibly. "She was turning against us even _then_?"

The warlock nodded.

"Morgana started on the path to darkness _long_ before you saw her try to usurp your father, Arthur. She was behind so many things before she declared her true intentions so openly."

There was a few beats of painful silence as the blonde clearly digested this.

"And you knew all along," he stated flatly.

"Yes, I knew," he replied heavily. "I knew, even as I tried desperately to change things. But no matter what I did, I couldn't fix it. And I truly tried, Arthur. I tried to help her. Kilgharrah warned me that I couldn't reveal my magic to her, and I obeyed him, at least in that. But no matter how many times he urged me to eliminate the risk she posed to the future of Albion, I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill her. She was _Morgana_, and I cared about her."

"You blame yourself," said his friend, sympathy clear in his tone.

"I blame myself for _many_ things, my lord."

_Morgana's descent into evil; Mordred's presence in Camelot, Lancelot's death. His father, Freya... and the state of his friend's health at the moment, for if he hadn't have been so negligent with Aithusa, the white dragon would never have given her allegiance to Morgana. Mordred's sword would have just been a sword, not a weapon infused with such murderous intent._

Oh yes, there was much he blamed himself for, he thought bitterly.

"You shouldn't do that," admonished the king softly. "You may be the most powerful sorcerer in the world, but you're not responsible for the decisions and actions of everyone else."

"But, my lord, I am _Emrys_," he said, his bitterness adding a cruel edge to his voice. "I am responsible for _so many_ things. The weight of my destiny crushes me, but not _nearly_ as much as the weight of my mistakes. And there have been _many_ mistakes, my lord. Too many. I should have known better. I should have listened to Kilgharrah, instead of stubbornly clinging to my childish ideals. I thought I could _save_ Morgana. I thought I could change fate, and shape it to my will. I thought I was strong enough. I am _Emrys_, and still it wasn't enough. Kilgharrah always said that Morgana was the hate to my love, the darkness to my light."

Merlin didn't attempt to hide the tears that pooled in his eyes as he finally gathered his courage and faced his king fully.

"I don't feel that light right now, Arthur; all I feel is Morgana's darkness. And it's my fault, all of it."

He pulled in a ragged breath, appalled at what had just spilled from his lips. Arthur was looking shell-shocked, and with good reason. Merlin hadn't realised just how much pain and self-recrimination he'd been harbouring, and the warlock was momentarily stunned.

"You're a good friend, Merlin."

The servant gazed mutely at the king.

"I _know_ you're a good friend – the very best a friend can be – and I know this because you are _you_. You've _always_ been a good friend. You couldn't have done anything different; you couldn't have killed Morgana all those years ago. You're _not_ a cold-blooded killer."

The warlock flinched, and lowered his eyes.

"You're not allowed to blame yourself, Merlin. I forbid it. I'm your _king_, and I forbid it."

The words were firm, yet they were spoken with such gentleness that the warlock gradually raised his eyes and found the soft blue of his friend's gaze.

"Morgana chose her own path. _You're not responsible_," said the blonde softly.

"But she was so afraid..." he whispered. "She was so _afraid_, Arthur."

"And were _you_ afraid?" the king shot back. "Were _you_ afraid when you learned of your destiny?"

Merlin blinked stupidly.

"Of _course_ I was! I already _told_ you I was afraid."

"And yet you never wavered – never faltered _even once_ – from your path."

"I-I..."

"And that is why you are so very _different_ from Morgana. That is why you could _never_ be responsible for her actions. There's not a shred of evil in you, Merlin, so how could you _possibly_ have foreseen the atrocities that were in Morgana's future? Rid yourself of the blame, my friend. It's too heavy a burden, and it's not yours to bear."

Merlin was stunned at the king's words, and could not even think for a moment or two. Then he felt destiny gently nudging at him, whispering that this man – _this king_ – was everything that fate had promised him to be. He pulled in a steadying breath and faced his friend, allowing his gratitude to shine clearly from his eyes.

"You're a good friend too, Arthur."

"I'm not so sure about that," said the blonde, evidently uncomfortable at the compliment.

"You are," said the warlock firmly, feeling his composure returning, and bringing with it a renewed determination to see his friend stand tall and strong again. "You _are _a good friend," he repeated. "And I'm _not_ going to let you die, Arthur Pendragon. I couldn't save Morgana, but I _can_ save you. And I will."

"_Mer_lin..."

"There's something else you should know about Emrys, my lord," he said, cutting off his friend's protest, and nudging his horse into a faster trot.

"_What_?" the king groaned.

Merlin found himself grinning, and he sent a cheeky look over his shoulder as he replied to his friend's exasperated query.

"He's even more stubborn than the King of Camelot."


	12. To Confess and Console

**Argh, I'm sorry! I got sidetracked by the thread of drabbles that I started the other day... those pesky 100 worders wouldn't leave me be. Anyway, here's the next chapter. And a big 'Hello!' to new and old readers alike, and THANK YOU for the beautiful reviews you have left for this story. *hugs***

**I've had a busy day, and I'm off out for the evening, but I wanted to get this posted seeing as it's been a week since the last chapter. I only finished writing it twenty minutes or so ago, and so I've only given it ONE read through rather than my usual two or three. I hope there aren't any glaring mistakes, and if there are, please don't hesitate to tell me.**

**I don't own Merlin. But I so WANT to.**

* * *

Arthur was still feeling more than a little bit stunned; throughout the past few days, his servant had often displayed flashes of emotion while he'd been explaining some of the details of his secret past, but he'd always seemed in control. Oh, the king had spotted the gleams of moisture in Merlin's eyes, but it had always been fleeting, and accompanied with a firming of the jaw that so clearly signified his friend's determination and resolve to speak truthfully, no matter the consequences.

Not so this time. This time the raven-haired man had still told the truth – that was obvious – but they were truths that the servant clearly never wanted to admit to his friend.

Merlin's loss of composure had been... revealing. Not so much the words themselves, enlightening though they had been. No, it was the way those words had been practically ripped from his friend's obviously unwilling lips. Arthur wasn't the most accomplished person when it came to deciphering the thoughts and emotions of _himself_, never mind anyone else, but even he could see that the warlock's hitherto stoic demeanour was merely a mask that his friend wore not only to protect others, but to protect himself.

"_I blame myself for_ many _things, my lord."_

He had _no_ idea how many things weighed on his friend's mind, but frankly, given everything that he'd learned so far, Arthur was only surprised that the warlock hadn't unravelled _long_ before now. He suspected that Merlin was still holding back a staggering amount of secrets, only this time there were no poisonous feelings of betrayal coursing through the king, only concern, and a deep compassion for his stubbornly loyal servant.

The king had already questioned how one man could carry so much grief, but he'd never imagined the depth of the darkness that the warlock carried within him. Now he didn't wonder so much about what had caused his friend's smiles to lesson over the years, only that Merlin had even managed to smile in the first place.

"_It's my fault; all of it."_

The king was tempted to curb his still rampant curiosity about the secrets his friend obviously still guarded so closely, unwilling to poke and prod at things that plainly caused such distress to the warlock. But his habitual shying away from emotional confrontations was strangely absent, his life-long inaptitude of dealing with them suddenly cured. How else could he have found the words that had so clearly eased his friend's mind only minutes ago? Even now the king wondered where his words had sprung from; he'd spoken without thought, his protective instincts taking over when faced with the distress of his friend.

And he'd helped. He'd been able to break through the cloud of despair that had settled so suddenly over his friend, and had brought light and warmth back to the warlock's features. Him. Arthur._ He_ had done that.

A wave of satisfaction started to wash over him, before coming to a slow and painful halt as something that had been puzzling him suddenly became clear, and the satisfaction swiftly became a crippling mixture of awe and remorse.

Arthur may have helped his friend, but he had also caused the breakdown.

The signs had been so obvious at the time, but the blonde hadn't paused to consider them, cowed by the unfamiliar ferocity that had marred his servant's features. Merlin had been angry with him, _furious_ that he'd had the audacity to speak of his own death. That fury had stripped away the composure and had left the warlock wide open and vulnerable, so much so that when Arthur had begun to question him about the sword fragment, his servant had nothing left to hide behind.

The sheer scale of his half-sister's deceit and betrayal no longer plagued him as it had done in the past, unexpected as the full truth may have been, but the evidence of Merlin's almost unbelievable amount of self-recrimination bothered him more than _anything_ had ever bothered him before.

Arthur knew he was dying, no matter what the warlock said. There was only the slimmest of chances that he would survive this, and that chance was shrinking with every passing hour. He truly wished with all his heart that he would live to see Camelot again, that he could wake up every day with Guinevere's soft body curled into his own. But more than that, more than _anything_, he wished he could live so that he could spare the man who was riding ahead of him the pain that would likely banish his smiles forever.

Merlin's earlier words floated at the edges of Arthur's memory...

"_You're the other half of my soul, Arthur."_

And Arthur finally understood.

This man – this _purest_ of friends – was the brother of his heart. Arthur painfully recalled his own grief during the times he'd almost lost his friend, and even now the memory of it caused his stomach to clench. What would he feel like now, with the full truth of their bond finally out in the open?

It was unthinkable.

If Mordred's blow turned out to be successful, the former knight would be responsible for more than _Arthur's_ death, but also the death of his friend. Oh, Merlin might continue to breathe, but his light would be snuffed out forever, and the servant would be but an empty shell.

This _couldn't_ be allowed to happen, not to Merlin. Not to the man who had already sacrificed so much and had lived for so long with the heavy burden of the druid prophecies, with the weight of responsibility that _no_ man should ever have to bear.

The king felt his current lack of physical strength keenly, and knew he had no control over his own fate. But he wasn't entirely helpless; he didn't need his warrior skills to battle the demons that tortured the warlock so cruelly. He just had to be the friend – the _brother_ – that Merlin so desperately needed.

He needed to get Merlin to open up, to allow him to purge all of the pain that was buried so deeply within him. It wouldn't lessen the agony of Arthur's almost inevitable death, but it might allow the warlock some measure of peace in the future.

Frankly, the king was terrified. But it had to be done; no matter how painful it might prove to be to either of them.

The blonde urged his horse forward and caught up with his friend, catching the man unawares and noting the flash of panicked anxiety that the warlock quickly masked with more moderate concern.

"Arthur? You alright?"

The king frowned, not sure how to go about his self-appointed task. Just how _did_ you persuade someone to spill their innermost thoughts, anyway?

"My lord? Arthur? What is it? Speak to me!"

The king dimly acknowledged to himself that he really needed to say something, but the amount of worry, fear, and _panic_ that was radiating from his friend seemed to have robbed him of words. His friend had pulled both of their horses to a stop, and was now feeling the blonde's head with one hand even as he moved its twin towards Arthur's chest.

"Is it the fragment?" his friend babbled. "_Is it_? Arthur, _say something._ You're beginning to worry me..."

The ridiculous words caused the king to snap out of his stupor, and he laughed, causing Merlin's hand to cease halfway to its destination.

"Arthur?"

"That's funny," the blonde said breathlessly, trying ineffectually to stifle his laughter. "It really is."

"Arthur, you're scaring me now."

The king's amusement slowly receded in the face of his friend's genuine perplexity.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. Then he shook his head and gathered the reigns of his horse. "Come on, we need to keep moving."

The servant frowned, but obeyed instantly, never once taking his eyes from his friend. Arthur waited patiently for the curiosity that would inevitably make his friend break the silence between them. He was rather impressed that the warlock held out for perhaps two minutes before he allowed it to get the better of him.

"What was so amusing?"

"You."

"_Me_?"

"Yeah."

His friend was clearly befuddled, and Arthur once again wondered how one person could be so many conflicting things. How someone could be so wise, yet so incredibly dull at the same time.

"It was what you said," the king said slowly.

"What? I said I was _worried_; I fail to see the humour, my lord."

"You said you were _beginning_ to worry." _Come on, Merlin, use your brain._

The servant continued to look blankly at him. Arthur sighed.

"How can you _begin_ to do something that you've already_ been_ doing for a long time?"

Merlin blinked, his eyes widening. Then he visibly swallowed, the slow flush to his cheeks giving the king a small measure of satisfaction.

"You've been worrying about me for so long, Merlin, that your words amused me. Well, perhaps _exasperated _me would be the better description."

"Ah."

"Indeed."

The king searched his friend's eyes for a few seconds, but the warlock shifted his gaze, once again shielding the blonde from his thoughts.

_Not anymore, my friend._

"Talk to me," he said gently. "Tell me."

"Tell you?"

"Yes, _tell_ me. Tell me who you are."

The servant once again blinked, confusion clouding his eyes. "I've already told you who I am. I am _Emrys_."

"No. No, you're not."

"You don't_ believe_ me?"

"Oh I believe you," said the king firmly. "I believe you completely. But that isn't what I meant. Your true name might be Emrys, but that isn't who you are. You're _Merlin_, the Merlin who has been at my side for ten years; the Merlin who is my _brother_, and yet is almost a stranger to me."

"Arthur..."

"I don't say that to hurt you, truly I don't. I just want to know who you are."

The warlock was still avoiding the king's gaze, and Arthur could see the way the man was struggling to speak. He kept his silence, and waited patiently.

"I don't know," his friend whispered. "I don't want to... there are things that I... I don't know."

"You've carried the burden of our shared destiny alone all this time," said Arthur, finally managing to catch Merlin's eyes. "Isn't it about time you shared the weight of it?"

"You don't _need _to share it, my lord. I can bear it well enough."

Arthur blew out a breath. _Ye Gods, but the man was stubborn._

"Enough!" he all but growled, somewhat satisfied at the look of shock on his friend's face. "No more, Merlin, _no more_. You've kept me in the dark for far too long, and I want – no, I _demand_ – you to cease your _infernal_ need to protect me from every damn thing you think might harm me."

"But..."

"Have you thought even_ once_ about how this makes me feel? Have you never paused to consider that you're not the _only _one this affects? That I have as much right as _you_ to want to help and protect a friend? This destiny is _ours_, not yours alone!"

"What do you _want_ me to say?" the warlock snapped. "That I have _killed_? That I have had to watch events unfold _knowing_ that I was utterly powerless to stop them? That sometimes I've wanted to _scream _with the frustration that no matter what I did, _nothing_ ever mattered? Nothing made a _difference_! Ever! I've sacrificed almost _everything_ for the sake of a destiny that even Kilgharrah warned me was perilously close to never coming to be. So what do you want to me tell you, my lord? That it's been easy? _No_. It _hasn't _been easy. And it _hasn't _been pretty; there's been too much death, too much blood on my hands."

Good God, Arthur had wanted the man to purge himself, but somehow he had expected something gentler, not this raging storm of fury that was spilling from his friend.

"You want to know _me_? Who I _am_? The _truth_?" his friend continued, oblivious to the king's stunned reaction. "I'm a _failure_, my lord. _That_ is the truth of it. Not only have I failed _you_, but everyone – _everyone_ – that I've ever cared about."

"Don't be stupid," said the king, wondering how on earth his intention to help had gone so terribly wrong.

"Stupid," repeated the warlock, a smile that had little to do with humour pulling at his lips. "You know, that's the perfect word, my lord. I _have_ been stupid; too many times to count."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Doesn't change the fact that you're right, though."

The blonde wasn't altogether happy with those quietly spoken words, but he was relieved that at least the shouting had stopped.

"I'm waiting," he said, his gaze fixed upon his friend. Merlin visibly slumped.

"Alright, Arthur. Since you're obviously not going to let this go, I'll talk."

And talk he did, so much so that the king almost wished he'd never demanded it to begin with. The warlock's words came haltingly at first, with obvious reluctance. His friend took him back right to the beginning, when they had been nothing more than an arrogant prince and an insolent peasant, and through all the long years of their friendship.

Merlin was skilled with words – a fact Arthur was well aware of seeing as he hadn't written any of his own speeches for several years now – but it was the subtle nuances in the tone of the warlock's voice that made his words sing. Arthur briefly wondered if his friend could carry a tune, because surely the man had the soul of a minstrel. The sheer emotion in his words was mesmerising.

Or maybe it was because Arthur felt so keenly the depth of other man's pain.

His servant hadn't been lying when he said he'd sacrificed almost everything over the past few years; he had warned that the king would not like some of the things he had done. The warlock's deep-rooted need to protect the blonde was well-founded, for the king felt darts of shock-filled pain pierce him repeatedly over the next hour or so, as revelation upon revelation was thrust onto him with the speed and the subtlety of a blacksmith's hammer.

The warlock kept his word, and held nothing back. Arthur's friend ruthlessly recalled everything that he had ever done; never once trying to justify his more poorly made decisions, and never failing to astonish the king with his complete and total modesty. Merlin clearly didn't believe he had done anything special over the years, and the blonde was continuing to be stricken by increasingly sharper pangs of humility and awe.

The man before him was not made like any other person that Arthur had ever met. Oh, he was flesh, bone and blood, but that's where the similarities ended. He thanked whoever it was that was responsible for choosing Merlin as the other half of his destined soul, for surely no other man could have filled the position so perfectly. Loyalty and love flowed through his friend's veins just as strongly as the incredible magic that was so much a part of him.

As the details began to pour out from his friend, the king took stock of the untold grief that Merlin had successfully repressed over the years. The death of Balinor, the father he'd never known; the loss of the woman he loved, the price of his devotion to the king; the full extent of Morgana's betrayal, which twisted and joined with the awful truth of Mordred's final purpose. Even the crippling weight of guilt that plagued the warlock over the slaughter of Agravaine; a guilt that _no_ other man would feel given what the traitor had done. Everything the warlock confessed to was riddled with self-loathing, and it was clear why his friend believed himself to be a failure.

It was also clear that the very thing that made him feel guilty was the same thing that made Arthur value his friend so dearly; Merlin perceived his inherent caring nature as a weakness, but he was wrong, so _very_ wrong.

Even as the king was mulling over this latest revelation, his friend came to a sudden stop, holding his hand up in warning. Arthur looked around, but couldn't see anything that had brought the sudden look of alertness to the servant's face. Confused, he could do little more than follow his friend as he led them to the shelter of some trees, and observe from his sitting position as his friend hovered before him and watched the area directly ahead.

The king heard a whispered word and saw a breeze of magic ruffle some leaves, causing them to fall gently over the tracks that their horses had left on the earth. Seconds later, the blonde heard the unmistakable sound of enemies approaching, and watched Merlin's head tilt forward, an unspoken spell causing several trees and bushes to rustle loudly in the distance. Moments later, the enemies were riding on, heading purposefully towards the noise.

"You've done this before," the king said stupidly, wincing even as he said it. _Obviously_.

Merlin turned to gaze thoughtfully at his friend, no hint of pride on his face, just a quiet acceptance that told Arthur more than any words ever could. _And you think you're not special_, he thought sadly, observing the way Merlin swiftly returned his attention to the Saxons now riding away from them.

"All these years, Merlin... and you never once sought any credit."

The warlock nodded slightly, obviously judging that it was safe to move from their hiding place. He turned his unwavering gaze to the king, and replied matter-of-factly, the answer so simple that there couldn't be any doubt as to the truth of it.

"That's not why I do it."

_No, it's not, is it? Loyal, brave, idiotic fool that you are..._

"Come on," his friend said, gently lifting him up, the concern that was firmly back on his features pushing away all of the anger and grief from their recent confrontation. The king realised that there would be no more revelations from his friend, not now the warlock had been reminded so forcibly about their present situation.

Arthur wasn't overly worried though, for he'd already noted the slight lift of his friend's shoulders. The blonde hadn't said anything in response to Merlin's full disclosures, but somehow he knew he didn't have to. Words were by now almost unnecessary, he realised. They knew each other _so well_. Merlin didn't ask for forgiveness, and Arthur hadn't given it; it was there nonetheless. The king only hoped that it would help the man if the worst was to happen, because no matter how much Arthur cared for his friend, there was little he could do to comfort him from beyond the grave.


	13. The Dance of the Dragons

**Wow, some _astoundingly_ beautiful reviews once_ again_ for yesterday's chapter - I continue to be utterly floored by everyone's support; thank you so, so much! **

**Here's the latest chapter, which overlaps somewhat with the previous one simply because the temptation to delve into Merlin's mind as I tortured the poor bloke proved to be deliciously irresistable. Ahem. Anyway, the last words in this chapter are the beginning of the end, I'm afraid to say, as it cuts off just short of the point in the series finale when the climax is about to unfold. I'm both excited and petrified at the thought of writing the next chapter, as it contains the scene that first spawned what was initially going to be a one-shot. Quite how that one-shot became this rampant beast of a story still shocks me, but _every single_ one of the 37k words written so far were absolutely essential for what I envisioned when the idea first popped into my head. Now I just have to somehow find the 'epic' that I need to justify all the angst I've put our poor boys through. The final three chapters are going to slay me utterly. *thud***

**Anyway, enough rambling about the last few chapters, as first there is THIS one to post. :D**

**I don't own Merlin, a fact that continues to make me pout, and no doubt always will.**

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Merlin glanced at the sun's position in the sky, and guessed it to be early evening. They'd been travelling in companionable silence ever since they'd left the last batch of Saxons behind, and Merlin was strangely reluctant to burst the bubble of peace that was currently shrouding them. Besides, he wasn't so sure he would be able to speak anything other than nonsense at the moment; he was still struggling to absorb the enormity of what had happened several hours before.

_Beacuse the king now knew everything._

The warlock was still reeling, if truth be told. He'd agonized over what he should tell his friend for the past few days; he'd been sorting through his memories, picking out details that the blonde needed to know, and discarding the things that were completely unnecessary, not to mention potentially deeply distressing, for the king to be made aware of.

But Arthur knew _everything_.

He'd sworn to himself that he would never reveal anything that would add to the already substantial amount of guilt he knew the king was bound to feel. Arthur's primary instinct was always – _always_ – to take charge of anything remotely dangerous so that he could protect his friends; Merlin knew that even a mere sketching of his past deeds would be enough to tug fiercely on the king's strong sense of honour.

Plus, the warlock was all too aware of how guilt had a nasty habit of sucking the life from you; he'd had no wish for his friend to suffer any more than he needed to.

But the king knew it _all_.

Even now, the raven-haired man was slightly bemused over how it had happened. One minute he had been savouring the moment of his returned composure, especially as he had bested the king with his throwaway comment of the stubbornness of Emrys matching that of a certain ruler of Camelot. The next thing he knew, Arthur had crept up on him, using suddenly shrewd blue orbs to search not only his _own_ eyes, but what Merlin had felt was the very depths of his soul.

It had been unnerving, to say the least. Which was why he'd tried so desperately to evade those probing pools of blue, and fought so hard against the temptation to relieve himself of everything that had been tearing at his conscience for so long.

But Arthur had continued to push at him, poking relentlessly at the warlock's steely resolve, making Merlin inwardly squirm. As if that hadn't been enough, the blonde had thrown him headlong into confusion with a few simple words...

_Tell me who you are._

The shock that had shot through the warlock had sent him into a whirlwind of emotion; fear that his assumption of the king's acceptance of him had been but an illusion, doubt that he would ever be able to get his friend to forgive his many sins, and terror that Mordred's blade was causing Arthur to lose his wits.

It was little wonder that he had been reduced to a babbling wreck, unable to utter more than fragments of a legible response.

And then the king had uttered a word that had thrust the warlock all too painfully back to the conversation they'd had the day before; that awful word that had caused such agonised remorse...

_Enough._

That one little word had added another little crack to the warlock's composure, and panic had rendered him witless. By the time Arthur had finished his stern admonishment of Merlin's continued reluctance to divulge all his secrets, the warlock had been almost dizzy with the confused swirl of his emotions, and his habitual care over the choice of his words had abandoned him completely.

His bitter tirade had been frightening, not least because – for the first time ever – he'd been _completely _oblivious of how his words might affect his friend. For a moment, he'd forgotten the king had even been there; he'd given him no thought at all.

Then Arthur had admonished him again, the words themselves shocking enough, but not nearly as shocking as the realisation that his friend had witnessed the full extent of his rage.

Merlin hadn't even begun to recover from his outburst before the king continued to needle him, refusing to take back his demands for the truth. The warlock had violently cursed the pig-headedness of the blonde, frustrated by the king's complete inability to just _let the damn thing go_...

Then the fight had gone out of him, as he'd realised the futility of his wishes. _They were the same, after all_. The gentle reminder of their shared soul had finished what Arthur had started, and had removed the last of the warlock's defences. So he'd talked. And then talked some more. He'd spilled every last secret he'd ever kept, and he hadn't spared himself in the telling of it. He'd told it _all_; the good _and_ the bad.

And so now Arthur knew everything.

And was still silent, the warlock suddenly realised.

Merlin frowned, cursing the stupidity that the hazy relief of the past hour or so had caused. He'd checked on the king periodically since they'd continued their journey, and he'd assumed that his friend's serene expression had been the result of the same warmth of peace that the warlock had been afflicted with. Too late, he realised that there was an underlying blankness to the blonde's expression; a blankness that clearly indicated the state of shock that the king's body was now finally succumbing to.

"Damn," he muttered angrily. "Damn, damn, _damn_."

Even as he uttered his curses, he turned and saw the king slumping in his saddle.

"Arthur!"

The warlock hastily jumped from his horse and rushed to the king's side, propping the blonde back up. He was immediately hit with a wave of pure terror as he felt the evidence of the blonde's weakness. That the king was still in the saddle was almost beyond belief, as it was painfully clear that Arthur now had little to no control over his body. The ease with which Merlin was able to manipulate his friend's limbs demonstrated the loss of muscle control, and the warlock didn't need to check his friend's eyes to know that they would be devoid of all but the dimmest light of awareness.

He looked anyway, and viciously clamped his lips against the howl of agony that threatened to explode from them.

"I can't go on," said his friend, an awful mix of shame and remorse in his voice.

_No-no-no-no-no..._

"There's not far to go," he gently coaxed, his words laced with desperation. _You _can't_ give up now._ "We need to reach the lake before dawn."

"No, Merlin... no."

It went against every urge that he had, but he was helpless to resist the pained denial of his friend. "Alright. We rest for an hour," he said abruptly, unwilling to compromise any further than that.

The warlock looped his arm around Arthur's back to steady him, and urged the horse forward, grabbing his own horse's reigns as he passed it. He walked for a few minutes, then stopped as soon as he spotted an area where they could rest for a while. He gently helped the blonde to the floor, and took the brunt of his friend's weight as he guided them both to a log. Settling Arthur as best as he could, he quickly scooped some branches and fallen leaves into a haphazard pile, and lit a fire as close to the king that safety would allow.

Merlin shot a worried look at his friend, who was gazing at the flames of the fire as if hypnotized. The warlock frowned again, and dithered over what to do next.

"Horses," he muttered to himself. He needed to secure their mounts before the beasts gave in to their natural tendency to roam.

"I'll be right back," he said to the king. "Don't go anywhere now, will you?"

The king's lack of response to what was admittedly a poor attempt at humour worried the warlock even more. He tended to the horses as swiftly as he could, and returned to his friend's side barely a minute after he had left it.

"Arthur? You still with me?"

The king was still gazing at the fire, and it was only after Merlin had gently shaken his friend's shoulder several times that his friend blinked and turned his head.

"You should try to sleep," whispered the warlock. "We won't be staying long; an hour, no more."

"I... don't want to... to sleep."

Merlin tried to protest, but it was weak as he fully absorbed the stark evidence of his friend's deterioration. The king was clearly struggling to form words.

"I want... I want..."

"What is it, Arthur?" he whispered. "What do you need? If I can get it, I will. Some food? Water? Are you cold? Let me get you a blanket..."

"No."

Merlin chewed his lower lip, and waited patiently for the king to articulate his request. He watched as his friend swallowed a few times and blinked heavily.

"I want to see the... dragon," he finally said, and Merlin caught the slight movement of the king's fingers as he weakly gestured towards the fire. "I want to... see the magic."

The warlock's magic responded to the request almost before Merlin had the chance to process it, and he didn't need to look at the fire to know that two dragons were floating above it, playfully dancing around each other's tails.

"It's beautiful," the king breathed. "The magic... _your_ magic... it's beautiful. I never thought magic could _be_ beautiful, but it is."

The warlock felt the heat rising in his cheeks, both at the obvious compliment, and the hidden context within it. Merlin already knew of his friend's change of heart on the subject of sorcery, but for the king to have voiced it aloud was a gift that the warlock had thought he would _never _receive. The words spoken had been precious enough, but the sentiment behind those words caused Merlin's hands to tremble, and his throat to work convulsively against the tears that were threatening to choke him.

Needing a moment to regain some of his scattered wits, the warlock muttered his intention to fetch a waterskin from their supplies, and stood on legs that were still shaking with the reaction to what Arthur had said.

On his return only moments later, he saw that the king's gaze was still fixed on the dancing dragons, and he sighed regretfully at what he was about to do. He knew that the king was fighting against his own weariness, holding it at bay in order to keep watching the gentle magic that was so clearly the embodiment of the strength of their shared destiny.

It was such a profound moment for the warlock, and he truly wished he could make it last as long as possible; but Arthur's need to rest was infinitely more important than Merlin's almost selfish urge to bask in the beauty of the moment. The warlock gently nudged his magic, and he heard the king echo the sigh that was escaping from his own lips. He found the eyes of his friend, and they shared a look of understanding as they each recognised the other's regret, the strength of their shared empathy so powerful that it was almost a physical presence between them.

Merlin pulled in a steadying breath and approached his friend, dropping to his haunches as he helped the king to drink some water.

"Merlin... whatever happens..."

But the warlock interrupted before Arthur could finish, unwilling to allow thoughts of failure to disturb this almost tranquil moment between them.

"Ssh, don't talk," he gently commanded.

"I'm the King, Merlin, you can't tell me what to do," his friend wryly replied.

Merlin's lips pulled into a smile almost of their own volition as he gratefully accepted the poignant return of their banter, however small it was; he'd been so _scared_ that it was forever lost to him.

"I always have," he quipped shakily. "I'm not going to change now."

He found his eyes drawn almost magically to the king's gaze, and had the strangest feeling that the blonde's earlier words were somehow echoing in the man's seemingly endless seas of blue.

"_The magic... _your_ magic... it's beautiful. I never thought magic could _be_ beautiful, but it is."_

The warlock's reaction was no less powerful than it had been the first time, but it was _nothing_ to what he experienced at the king's next words.

"I don't want you to change. I want you... to always... be _you_."

The king paused, and the moment was both fleeting, yet endless. Time ceased to move, and the warlock felt his heart shudder to a halt as the incredible force of his friend's total and irrefutable acceptance flowed over him, enveloping him with such warmth that even his magic was momentarily cowed beneath its power.

Even as the warlock tried to cling to the moment, it was wrenched from his grasp, causing his heart to thud painfully within his chest, and time to resume its inevitable journey forward.

"I'm sorry about how I treated you."

Merlin blinked, completely disorientated, and he struggled to make sense of Arthur's words. He mentally shook the befuddlement from his head, searching for something to say that would somehow convey how deeply he'd been affected by his friend's simple, but heartfelt statement. He parted his lips, hoping the action would kick-start his brain into action, and he started to speak before he even realised that he'd known what to say all along.

"Does that mean you're going to give me a day off?"

"Two."

One word, accompanied with the hint of a smile; but that briefest of replies might just as well have been one of the many speeches that Merlin had prepared so carefully for his friend in the past, for it told the warlock that while Arthur had fully acknowledged the power of Emrys, the king saw beyond the magic and recognised _Merlin. _His friend.

"That's generous," he said cheekily, and was rewarded with a brief rolling of the eyes that was just so... _Arthur_... before the king lost consciousness. The warlock gently placed his hand on the king's face, and moved his fingers in search of a jugular pulse; it was faint, but steady, and Merlin nodded to himself.

"Get some sleep," he whispered.

With nothing else to do but wait, the warlock stood and, raking his hands through his hair, began to pace, his eyes nervously flickering between the blonde and the shifting sky above.

_They were running out of time._


	14. Wisdom in Flight

**Well, here it is... THE chapter. *bites nails* The one that's been in my head ever since I saw the finale, and the reason why I put our boys through so much angst. And it's _long_. Over 6k words! I _really_ hope you enjoy it, and that it was worth the wait, because I honestly agonised over every single word, wanting to get it as close to what was in my head as I could.  
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**We're still not quite at the end, and the next chapter will be all about Merlin. Until then, thank you for your continuing wonderful reviews, and the support that the favouriting and following gives me! *hugs*  
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**Oh, and you might want some tissues handy...  
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**I don't own Merlin. *grabs one of those tissues***

* * *

_Arthur had always been strangely fascinated with dragons. He'd never told anyone of his fascination, because frankly, any talk of dragons was apt to either make people run swiftly in the opposite direction, or gape like stunned gargoyles and freeze on the spot. And of course, it wasn't as if he could tell his _father_ of his keen interest, as Uther would probably have locked the young prince in the dungeons for daring to even _mention_ the magical beasts in his presence._

_But despite not being able to talk to anyone about his thirst for dragon knowledge, the fascination never went away. As a boy, he'd tried more times than he could count to sneak past the guards posted at the lower level corridors, just so he could get a glimpse of the beast that dwelled in the deepest part of the castle. Most of the time the guards had stopped him at the stairs, but sometimes he'd been lucky enough to catch them unawares, and had made it close enough to the dragon's cavern to be able to hear the beast clanking around in its chains._

_This time, though, he made it even further than that. This time he was right inside the cave, and was facing the beast eye to eye._

_Two things immediately struck the king; one, he had a slight crick in his neck (he was the _King_, for goodness sake, the least the dragon could do was bow a little), and two, he had the nagging feeling that the dragon wasn't even supposed to _be_ in the cave. Which was obviously ridiculous, as the beast had been chained up for years. Where _else_ would it be?_

_Arthur brushed his thoughts aside, rubbed his neck, and frowned at the dragon with barely concealed annoyance. The dragon smiled; or at least Arthur _hoped_ it was a smile, what with there being so many sharp teeth on display._

"_Ah, young Pendragon; it is good to finally see you."_

_Arthur blinked owlishly._

"_Greetings," he said awkwardly, not sure how else to respond. He'd never been taught the proper etiquette when it came to conversing with dragons, after all._

_The dragon continued to smile (and Arthur truly did_ _hope that it _was_ a smile; there were still far too many teeth on display for the king to feel any degree of comfort), and tilted his head slightly, reminding the blonde of _Merlin_ of all people._

_Which was absolutely ridiculous, of course._

"_Pendragon, you have arrived at a fortunate time, for I have three things for you."_

_The dragon did that Merlin-like tilt of the head again, causing the king to frown. Actually, now that he thought about it, the dragon was speaking with a remarkably Merlin-like voice, too. Arthur blinked again, pushing the Dragon-Merlin conundrum to one side for the time being. He looked at the dragon and raised his eyebrows, silently asking the beast to continue._

_The dragon settled on its back legs and folded its arms (or were they legs?) in front of him._

"_Three things for the king that I see,_

_Who stands so proud, yet _small_ before me:_

_The first is a riddle, a puzzle, a game;_

_The answer found in the midst of a name._

_The past is the future, the future the past;_

_For some things are born to eternally last._

_For that which is once will yet always be_

_The king who stands so small before me."_

_Arthur blew out a breath and cursed. What the bloody hell was that about? _

"_Bit cryptic, aren't you?" he muttered. The dragon blinked, but didn't respond, clearly waiting for the king to work out the answer. After a few minutes, the king's frown cleared. The dragon had mentioned kings..._

"_Are you talking about _me_?" he asked hesitantly._

_The dragon nodded._

"_Indeed. _You_ are the answer, for _you _are..."_

"_The Once and Future King," said the king, shocking himself with words he hadn't realised were even in his head._

_The dragon nodded again, tilting his head respectfully._

_Arthur wasn't quite sure what all this _Once and Future King_ business meant, but he was happy that he had figured it out regardless. It would have been lowering to have been bested by a dragon, particularly one that still inexplicably reminded him of Merlin._

"_Excellent," he said jovially, rubbing his hands together. "Now, the second thing...?"_

_The dragon inclined its head and opened its mouth._

"_The second of things is a gift to treasure,_

_The value of which is far beyond measure._

_It's a person you seek, they're not hard to find;_

_You need only to search the paths in your mind._

_For there lies the person unlike any other,_

_Who's more than a friend, more than a brother._

_Acknowledge this man as a part of your soul,_

_For only then will two halves become whole."_

_Arthur waited, hoping there was more, because clearly the dragon had left out a few important details. The beast remained annoyingly silent though, and merely gazed at the king expectantly._

"_You may have to run that one by me again," the blonde admitted._

_The dragon rolled its eyes (really, how much more Merlin-like was the beast going to _get_?) and flicked a giant claw in the air, releasing something golden that spun several times before hovering just before the king's eyes. Arthur reached up and found his fingers closing around a small coin, and he turned it over in his palm, his forehead creasing with confusion. There was something _wrong_ with it..._

"_Hang on, this isn't right," he said, glaring at the dragon. "It's not even a proper coin. Just look at it. Both sides are the same."_

"_Of course they are," said the dragon serenely._

"_Bloody dragon," the king muttered._

_Arthur flipped the coin over several times, frowned at it – it was obviously trying to confuse him – than flung it back at the dragon, who watched it curiously as it spun in the air, but did nothing to stop its descent to the cavern's floor._

"_You treat lightly the truth of your destiny, Pendragon. You should not do that," the dragon admonished gently. Then the beast opened its mouth and shot flames towards the king._

"_Bloody hell!"_

_Arthur immediately threw his arms in front of his face protectively, but was shocked to discover that he wasn't actually on fire. He nervously lowered his arms and was confronted with the figures of two fiery dragons, which were twisting and turning in an elaborate dance, their tails leaving a blazing circle of fire in their wake._

"_Feisty little things, aren't they?" the dragon mused. "I like to call them the 'Prat' and the 'Idiot'."_

"_Merlin," the king breathed, understanding suddenly dawning on him._

"_Excellent!" said the dragon, obviously pleased._

_Arthur was feeling quite pleased himself; two riddles posed, two riddles solved, even if he wasn't entirely sure that he understood the answers. He'd think about that later though, probably when he mulled over the Dragon-Merlin thing. For the moment, he was actually starting to enjoy himself, even if the dragon _was_ talking utter nonsense._

"_Come on then," he said. "What's the next one?"_

"_The next one?"_

"_Yes. The next riddle?"_

"_Oh, there aren't any more _riddles_, I'm afraid."_

"_But you said _three_ things," reminded the king sternly. _

"_Ah yes, I _did _say that, didn't I? I am sorry, Pendragon, but the third thing I have for you is no riddle at all; it's a command."_

"_A command? You can't _command _me, I'm the _King_!"_

"_And yet command you is what I must do," said the dragon, rising up to his full height to gaze deeply at the king, his eyes shining with an ageless wisdom._

"_What would you have me do?" whispered the blonde, feeling a sudden terror rise within him._

"_I command you to open your eyes, Once and Future King."_

_Arthur blinked stupidly. _

"_What?"_

"_You must wake, Pendragon. _You must wake_."_

Arthur felt immediately disorientated as he shifted back into a body that he suddenly realised was full of pain.

"Arthur, we need to get moving."

For a moment, the king thought he was still back in the cave, then he realised that the dragon would never call him _Arthur_, especially with such a gentle voice. No, this time it really _was_ Merlin who was speaking to him. The king tried to move, but was having trouble fighting past the haze of pain that was screaming through every last one of his nerve-endings.

He felt himself being gently shaken, and he frowned, unsure whether to pull himself free of the final remnants of sleep, or to respond to the quiet urgency of his friend's words.

"Arthur, we've wasted enough time."

Merlin's gentle pleas won. _Of course they did_. Arthur could no more deny his friend than he could will the sun from the sky. As he blinked wearily up at the warlock and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, he was struck with the ludicrous image of Merlin commanding the sun to move from its home in the clouds and to settle upon the earth instead.

Or maybe it _wasn't _so ludicrous; after all, the warlock didn't seem to have any trouble commanding lightening, wind, and even _dragons_, for heaven's sake. The sun itself was probably no more than a fireside trick.

_Oh, I'm amusing_, he thought. Then he stopped his inner chuckling as he realised it wasn't really humour that he was feeling at all, just the ever-present, all-encompassing _awe_ that had been his companion ever since he'd realised just how incredible his bumbling manservant truly was.

Then came pain; sheer, bone-crushing _pain,_ as Merlin gently coaxed him on to a horse. The king grunted with the effort to hold back a scream, unwilling to admit how close he was to letting the agony defeat him. He watched as his servant gently secured straps, settled limbs into place, and just generally fussed around the blonde, the warlock's features pinched with concern. Then he gently wrapped the horse's reigns around the king's fingers, squeezing the digits reassuringly when he was done.

"Just lean forward, my lord," he commanded quietly. "Let the horse take your weight."

Merlin quickly mounted his own horse and clicked his tongue softly, guiding the king's mount with a second click of his tongue and a subtle movement of his head. The king's horse obeyed, and Arthur wasn't even surprised any more. His friend had a quiet authority that quelled _dragons_, for goodness sake, what chance did a mere horse have at resisting the warlock's will?

Though he was slumped forward, his head mere inches from his horse's neck, the king was still able to keep his gaze fixed firmly upon the man riding ahead of him. In fact, the concentration required to keep his focus on Merlin was probably the only thing keeping him conscious.

Apart from several variations of 'How're you doing, Sires' and "I'm fine" responses, the king was content for the warlock to keep silent, for it allowed the blonde to observe his friend. Although the servant was far from relaxed, he had obviously lost a lot of his reserve when it came to using his magic, and Arthur had the opportunity to absorb tiny little details that once again showed that the warlock used his magic as easily as most people used their limbs.

The way that fallen twigs moved from their path; how a stray wolf or two would turn from their approach, cowed by the mere lift of his servant's hand; even Arthur's horse, who would occasionally turn a different way a few seconds before the warlock's horse responded to his rider's gentle instructions. All this and more, and apart from the betraying small jerk of Merlin's head, the king wouldn't have suspected magic was involved at all. It was all so subtly done, that Arthur doubted _anyone_ would think there was magic involved.

It was yet another thing to add to the list of contradictions that was Merlin. To be so instinctively subtle, yet so endearingly _clumsy_ just didn't make any sense. Any yet... it _did_ make sense. For anyone else, it would have been madness, but for his friend – for _Merlin_ – it would have been madness to be any other way. The rules of normality just didn't apply to him.

"You still awake back there, Arthur?"

The king sighed.

"I'm _fine_, Merlin."

Heartily sick of repeating the same answer over and over again, Arthur searched for something new to say, his mind scrabbling about for something that would interest his friend enough to take his mind off the blonde's state of health.

"I dreamed of dragons," he said suddenly, and bit back a small smile as Merlin jerked his head around.

"Dragons, my lord?"

"Three of them. Or only one. _You_ were one. Two were... _fiery_."

_Well _that_ made sense_, he thought wryly. As he was finding it hard to string together more than three or four words at a time without catching his breath, though, it was the best he could do. Unfortunately, his halting – and admittedly rather strange – speech had caused his friend to frown, and Merlin was instantly by his side, reaching out a hand to test the heat of the king's head.

_Wonderful idea, Arthur. Now the idiot's even _more_ concerned._

"You're not feverish," the man muttered.

"M'fine," Arthur mumbled. _No I'm not, I'm dying_. _No. Better not say _that_ out loud_. "Lots of dragons," he blurted, and nodded his head with satisfaction. _That's better._

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" the warlock asked, curiosity clear in his voice.

"Good, I think," he replied, wincing as the horses began to walk forward again. "Strange, but... good."

Merlin had apparently decided that it was better to ride side by side with the blonde, so Arthur was able to see the ghost of a smile that flitted across his friend's features.

"_I_ was a dragon?" asked the warlock, clearly amused.

"No. But yes. The Great Dragon..."

"Kilgharrah?"

"Yes. He had your... voice."

"Oh. And the others?"

"They were dancing."

Merlin's features softened, and Arthur knew he didn't have to explain anything else, for both men were clearly remembering the fiery display from earlier that evening. The blonde again bit back a small smile; he felt curiously triumphant that he had not only succeeded in distracting his friend, but had also managed to coax a smile from him.

Then he frowned as a blanket of grief settled upon his servant's face.

"I wanted to call Kilgharrah," said the warlock abruptly. "But I couldn't."

"Why?"

"He's ill; dying, actually. He would come if I called him, but I don't think he would be able to carry us both. I'm not actually sure he would manage to even _reach_ us. He was very weak when last I saw him."

"I'm sorry," said the king, sensing the deep pain that the warlock felt at the thought of losing his dragon-brother.

"Me too," said his friend.

There was a beat of silence, as Arthur tried and failed to suppress the subject that both men had been avoiding, and he spoke, unable to hold it back any longer.

"Merlin..."

"Yes?"

"You need to...think about what will happen... if... if I..."

"No."

"_Mer_lin."

"No, Arthur."

The king slowly blinked, then tried again.

"Merlin..."

"Arthur, we're not going to talk about this, so you might as well save your strength. We're _so close_ now; we're almost there. Another hour or so. Two at most. We're going to make it, I promise."

There was a thread of panic in his friend's voice, but the king knew that Merlin believed every word he'd said. The problem was, as much as he wanted to believe it too, Arthur didn't think he could _last_ that long.

He nodded anyway, unwilling to upset his friend.

"Alright, Merlin. Alright."

After that, the blonde kept his silence, mostly because he knew his fractured sentences were disturbing his friend, but also because it was becoming increasingly more difficult to stifle the gasps of pain that were determined to escape his lips. So he clamped his teeth against the pain, and once again concentrated his thoughts on his friend.

_Keep going. You have to keep going._

He repeated this mantra perhaps a dozen or so times before it was rudely interrupted by a scream. It was a moment or two before the king realised that the noise had come from his own lips, the sound wrenched from him when his horse had suddenly reared up.

"Arthur!"

"Fine. Fine. I'm fine," the blonde said, though it was all too obvious that he clearly _wasn't_.

"Something spooked the horses," the warlock muttered, jumping to the ground and spinning slowly on the spot, his eyes searching for the cause of the horse's fright.

"I don't _see_ anything," his friend said, though from the frown on his face it was plain he was worried. "We should keep moving."

But Arthur's horse clearly had other ideas, as the beast began snorting nervously, and stamping its legs. The king drew blood as he bit his tongue with the effort not to scream again.

"Damn," muttered the warlock. "We're going to have to stop again. They won't let us ride them when they're like this. _Damn_ it."

Arthur breathed through his pain as his friend helped him from his horse, stumbling as he was led towards some rocks. He felt his friend give a little jerk, as though suddenly surprised, and the king looked at him curiously.

"Look, Arthur," he said gently, his frustration from moments before suddenly absent. "_Look_."

The king followed his servant's gaze and saw a column of stone rising towards the sky. It was shrouded in mist, and even Arthur could tell that it was a place of magic. He clung to the sight even as his friend was lowering him gently to the floor. _Maybe hope was not completely lost after all._

"Avalon," his friend said almost reverently. "We'll get there."

Before Arthur had chance to form a reply, the horses whinnied nervously and bolted.

"Whoa whoa _whoa_!" cried his friend, rushing towards them, but even as he reached the spot where they'd been standing only moments before, a voice carried over the sound of the horses' panicked flight, and it was a voice that Arthur had truly wished he'd never have to hear again.

"Hello, Emrys."

_Morgana._

Arthur watched with horror as his friend started to turn, but was thrown powerfully into the air. The king sucked in a breath, and reached blindly for Excalibur.

_But it wasn't there._

It wasn't there, and Morgana was walking towards him, a predatory gleam in her eye.

_A hunter stalking its prey._

Arthur held her gaze through sheer stubbornness. He refused to allow her the satisfaction of seeing him cower. He was defeated, and they both knew it. But he was still Arthur Pendragon, and he would _not_ be cowed, least of all by a murderous traitor.

"What a joy it is to see you, Arthur. _Look at you_, not so tall and mighty now."

Sickened by the triumph in her voice, Arthur could only continue to hold Morgana's gaze, filling his eyes with what he hoped was every bit of the disgust that he felt for the woman before him.

Morgana's own features twisted with hate as she lowered her voice, vicious spite evident in every word that she spat out. "You may have won the battle, but you've lost the _war_. You're going to die by Mordred's hand."

Even now, after _everything_, Arthur could not fathom the depth of the bitterness in his half-sister, and he felt his head jerk back, unable to conceal his disbelief at the cruelty of her words.

But Morgana was not finished, her features twisting madly into a mockery of concern, and her voice becoming almost crooning, like that of a mother comforting her child...

"But don't worry, my dear brother, I won't let you die alone. I will stay and watch over you," she said softly, before her features changed once again, radiating a hatred so deep that the king was horrifyingly transfixed. "Until the wolves_ gorge_ on your carcass, and _bathe_ in your blood."

Even as the king struggled to absorb the full madness of his sister, he caught a slight movement behind her.

It was _Merlin_. And he had Excalibur.

"No. The time for all this bloodshed is over," his friend said calmly, his eyes fixed on the witch.

Morgana spun to face the warlock, and Arthur couldn't help the flare of triumph that rose within him. _This is your time to shine, my friend._

"I blame _myself_ for what you have become," he heard his friend say almost apologetically, and the king was once again humbled by the depth of compassion that Merlin still displayed, even when faced with someone so wholly undeserving of it. "But this has to end," the warlock continued, his voice ringing with resolve.

"I am a High Priestess," scorned his sister. "No mortal blade can kill _me_."

For a moment, the king panicked, and he wondered if Morgana had spoken the truth. But then Merlin – warm, caring, _compassionate_ Merlin – plunged Excalibur softly into the witch's stomach with one fluid motion, and Arthur heard her gasp of surprised shock.

"This is no mortal blade," said the warlock, again with that almost apologetic inflection to his voice. "Like yours, it was forged in a dragon's breath."

Even as his gentle friend said the words, he carefully lowered the witch to the ground and removed Excalibur from her body. Arthur watched, with a mixture of relief and regret, as his friend took a step back, his servant's face's deeply etched with grief, remorse, and resignation.

"Goodbye, Morgana," he said, his words bringing Arthur out of his stunned reverie.

_Goodbye. _

She was gone; and with her, the threat to Camelot.

Arthur blinked at the suddenness of it. And he couldn't help but look at the man before him, and become awed all over again. All the years of fighting, all the years of blood, suffering, and _death_, and it wasn't an army that defeated the witch, but a single stroke of a sword, thrust with pained reluctance by the hand of a man who's very nature was to preserve life.

As his friend approached him, dropping Excalibur without thought, the king realised how very fitting it was that the person responsible for ending a war filled with hate was a man who was filled with the very opposite.

"You've brought peace at last," he said softly, his voice filled with respect, humbleness, and a gratitude so deep that he could not find the words for it.

His servant simply whispered the king's name as a response, and the blonde knew that Merlin was not thinking of what he had just done; he neither acknowledged the king's words, nor accepted the truth of them. His friend simply continued to do what he had _always_ done, and placed the welfare of his king – his _friend_ – before anything else.

The stunned haze that had enveloped the blonde throughout the entire encounter now left him, as Merlin helped him to his feet and silently urged him to walk. Pain returned with a swiftness that stole most of Arthur's breath, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. The warlock grabbed Excalibur as they passed it, thrusting it into the king's unresisting hand without pausing, and they both skirted the edge of Morgana's body, whose face was frozen in a look of pained disbelief.

Arthur took note of the way Merlin averted his gaze, and dragged enough air into his lungs to speak, his own pain buried for a moment by his deep concern for his friend.

"It's not your fault, Merlin," he said, pausing to pull in another ragged breath. "It's _not_ your fault."

"Ssh, don't speak," his friend admonished. "Just concentrate on breathing, Arthur. You need to _keep breathing_. Not much further now, I promise."

The king shook his head slightly, but didn't respond, despite his need to comfort his friend. It was clear that the warlock would not listen to him, and besides, there was more than a grain of truth in what his friend had just said.

He was struggling to catch enough breath just to enable him to stay conscious.

Merlin half-dragged him for what felt like an eternity, though the blonde knew it couldn't have been more than half an hour or so, before they finally reached the edge of the forest and entered a small clearing.

"Come on," urged his friend. "We have to make it to the lake."

But the steep incline to the fielded area sapped the last remnants of Arthur's pitiful reserves of strength, and he tilted to one side, the sudden change in position causing Merlin to stumble under the king's weight, and bring them both crashing to the floor.

It was over. They were too late. And far from feeling panic at the thought of his imminent death, all Arthur could think of was the man who was even at this moment desperately struggling to pull himself from beneath the king and get back on his feet.

"Merlin," he said gently. "Not without the horses. We can't... it's too late... it's too late." _You have to let me go._

"No."

_Please, my friend, don't do this_. The king tried again.

"With all your magic, Merlin," he said, trying his best to convey that he didn't blame his friend for what he knew the warlock would perceive as his failure, "and... you can't save my life."

"I can. I'm not going to lose you."

Merlin was still struggling to get to his feet, and the king knew that he had to stop him somehow; that he had to try and break through his friend's panic and _reach _him. He would _not _let their last minutes together be filled with a struggle that was powerless against the death that was hovering so closely in the shadows.

The king patted the hand that was gripping his chest so tightly, halting its clenching and squeezing it into stillness.

"Just... just hold me. Please."

Arthur felt the fight go out of his friend, and relaxed with relief.

"There's something I want to say," he whispered, his fingers still holding the warlock's hand in place.

"You're _not_ going to say goodbye."

_Stubborn, foolish man. _

"No... _Merlin_..."

The warlock's eyes found the king's, and Arthur gazed into them, willing his friend to listen not just with his ears, but with his heart.

"Everything you've done... I know now. For me. For Camelot." Arthur pulled in a breath. "For... the kingdom you helped me build..."

Merlin's eyes crinkled, even as the blonde recognised the tears that were beginning to form.

"You'd have done it without me," said his friend, with a curious mix of humour and faith that was just so _typically_ Merlin that the king felt one last smile chasing across his face.

"Maybe," he replied, though they both knew how wrong that was. He reached for a final burst of strength, willing himself to stay conscious long enough to be able to say what he hadn't been able to before now. Something that he should have said long ago.

"I want to say... something I've never said to you before."

The king tilted his head so that he could look at his friend fully, and finally let go of the hand that was trembling against his chest.

"_Thank you,_" he said simply, and reached up to ruffle his friend's hair in the age-old gesture of brotherly love.

Arthur tried to keep his eyes open, he truly did. But as the strength left him, his eyelids dropped in perfect unity with the hand that had gently given his affectionate farewell.

"Arthur... NO! Arthur!"

The king was dimly aware that he didn't feel any pain any more, but also that he had no control over his body. He felt his friend's tremors as the warlock frantically felt for a pulse. _Stay with me_. Arthur would have given anything to be able to obey his friend's whispered plea, but he simply had nothing left to give.

"Arthur! Arthur... come on!"

His friend's desperate cries, mixed with grunts of agonising grief, and accompanied with a renewed frantic struggling, tugged on the king's soul, but he was beyond answering.

_I'm so sorry, my friend._

He heard Merlin growl, the sound so foreign that he almost didn't recognise his gentle friend, then felt the immense power that hummed through the warlock's body as he screamed a torrent of words that Arthur had never heard before in his entire life, words that were clearly being ripped from the very depths of his friend.

"_O drakon, e mala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes!"_

The power still radiating from his friend in waves, the king felt Merlin pull himself from beneath him, and place his hands gently on either side of the blonde's face.

Then suddenly, as he felt his friend rest his head gently against his own, the king felt a tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach, and experienced the strangest feeling of... _shattering_... before coming back together again.

Even as he felt everything fall back into place, he knew he was _different_ somehow; he was still Arthur Pendragon, the King of Camelot, but somehow he was _Merlin_, too. He was as aware of his friend's life as much as he was aware of his own. And with this awareness came memories – _Merlin's_ memories – that flickered and rushed through Arthur's mind with dizzying speed, yet aching slowness all at once.

Everything – _everything_ – that the king had discovered in the previous days became more than mere explanations that had stirred his sympathies, they became memories of his _own_, and they were a gift that was both a blessing and a curse.

He saw, through Merlin's eyes, all the sacrifices that the warlock had made over the years, and he felt every last tear that had been shed because of them.

He was Merlin, distraught beyond belief, as he gazed at his mother's ravaged face, the consequence of saving a prince. He was Merlin, offering his life freely so that he could save his guardian, and commanding the power of life and death itself when it seemed that all was lost.

He was Merlin, rocking on his knees as he cradled a dying girl in his arms, begging her not to leave him. He was Merlin, still raw from the death of Freya, dealing with finding and losing a father in the space of only a few hours.

The memories crashed over the king in waves, not sparing him a single moment to recover, and he was crushed by the sheer volume of them. He tried to slow the waves, but he was both Arthur _and _Merlin, and the memories couldn't be slowed, because they were _already there_.

Flashes of conversations spun through his mind, unconnected but making sense, unknown yet still familiar...

"_Y__ou know, Merlin, you're the one Arthur should knight. You're the bravest of us all and he doesn't even know it."_

"_My life has always been marked out by destiny. If this is meant to be...I'm not afraid. I will gladly die, Gaius, knowing that one day...Albion will live."_

"_You have magic!"_

"_I was born with it."_

He was Merlin as he was held captive, the horror of the Formorroh dawning on him even as it was thrust viciously into his neck... Merlin as he talked with the Diamair, shrinking back from knowing too much, but unable to resist asking the one question that haunted his every waking hour... Merlin, as he was forced to watch his king make mistake upon mistake and, despite his great magic, powerless to do anything about it.

Arthur tried to absorb it all, but it was too much,_ far_ too much. And yet he wanted to know more, wanted to understand everything there was to understand, for even as the waves continued unrelentingly, he sensed that they were coming to an end.

The memories sped up, merging and twisting through the king's mind until he couldn't distinguish whether they were his _own_ memories, or that of his friend. They weren't separate any more, _they were the same_.

They were the same... two sides of one coin, spinning endlessly through time... two halves of one soul, sharing the same body for a brief, yet infinite moment. And though it was tearing the king apart to finally see all that his friend truly was, it was a pain that would pale when compared with the agony he would suffer when they separated again, as he somehow knew was going to happen.

The memories shifted, and through Merlin's eyes he observed his best friend, fallen on the battlefield, and felt the pain of the warlock's deep grief clawing at him, making his heart beat erratically from sheer panic. Through Merlin's eyes he watched as the King of Camelot struggled to accept the truth of their shared destiny, and grieved at the obvious suffering of the king, forced by fate to add to that suffering simply because he was who he was.

The memories slowed, and the past few days trickled through his consciousness, his view twisted as he saw things from a perspective opposite to his own, and he grieved all the more because of it.

His suffering – _Arthur's_ suffering – was nothing compare to his friend's. _Nothing_.

The king felt the beginnings of something stir in his stomach, and he knew the moment was almost upon him when he would be parted from his friend. Even as he watched with renewed wonderment the dance of fiery dragons, and the almost merciful slaying of Morgana, he was fighting against being pulled apart all over again...

It was close now, so close that his heart started thumping his dread.

He struggled against the weight of his king... desperately trying to stand so they could keep moving... felt the fight leave him as his friend gently begged him to hold him as he slipped from life... howled with agony as he saw the light leave the king's eyes... and finally screamed the words that ripped him apart, summoning his dragon kin, knowing he was condemning Kilgharrah to an almost certain death, yet powerless to stop himself because he so desperately needed his soul-brother to _live_... then he used the last remnants of his strength and pulled himself from beneath his friend, scrambling to his knees so that he could hold his face, touch his head to his own, and somehow draw strength from him...

The moment the two heads gently collided, Arthur lost the connection, and he was alone once more. He was just the King of Camelot again, and suddenly, he was surrounded by white...

_He was back in the cavern, and the dragon was looking at him almost tenderly. Arthur searched the eyes of the beast and nodded to himself, as understanding flowed gently through him._

"_Kilgharrah," he said respectfully, tipping his head in a slight bow,_

"_Pendragon," the beast replied. "I thought I told you to wake?"_

"_You did," replied the king. "And I obeyed you. But now I'm asleep again."_

_The dragon blinked, then smiled, and this time the king _knew _it was a smile._

"_The witch is dead," said the blonde._

"_That is so," replied the dragon._

"_So... everything will be alright now. Right?"_

"_Albion will prosper, Pendragon. You need not fear for her future."_

"_And... Merlin?"_

"_The warlock is stronger than he thinks," was the beast's cryptic reply._

"_I don't want to leave him alone."_

"_You will find each other again, Pendragon. You are not fated to part for good; not yet."_

"_Then he will save me?"_

_The dragon's eyes turned sorrowful, and the beast shook his head._

"_No. But do not fear. You are the Once and Future King. One day you will rise again, and be reunited with that which makes you whole."_

_The king felt a sudden lifting of his heart, and knew without doubt that the dragon spoke truthfully. _

_And yet..._

"_Kilgharrah?" he said hesitantly._

"_Yes, Pendragon?"_

"_Command me to wake again?"_

"_Not yet, Pendragon. Not yet."_

For the third time that day, Arthur felt the strange sensation of coming back into his body, though this time it was accompanied by the whistling of wind surrounding him. He was aware of the arms of his friend wrapped around him, and felt the strength of Merlin's heartbeat as it thumped against his back. The steady pound of the dragon's wings echoed against the wind, the sound soothing, and adding to the king's feeling of peace.

He wished he could say one last goodbye to his friend; this man, this _brother_, who had given up everything for him. He wished he could have one more minute of life, or even just a few seconds. But it was not to be, and though he was profoundly saddened, he was not distressed. He still had hope.

He was the Once and Future King, after all. He would see Merlin again.

_One day, my friend. One day..._

As this thought flashed briefly through the king's mind, he relaxed fully into his brother's arms. He pulled in one last breath, and savoured the wonderful feeling of freedom that he felt in that moment.

_He was flying..._

Then the king exhaled a final puff of air, and he slid gently into death.

And so Arthur Pendragon died.

He died... but his spirit _soared_.


	15. The One He Left Behind

***waves white flag warily* So... after the absolutely _stunning_ reviews that I recieved for the last chapter, I feel I should apologise for breaking so many hearts. I can't believe that something I wrote could possibly cause so many tears - especially given that we all _knew_ where this was going - and yet apparently it did. I'm so, so sorry... But I'm also so very _grateful_ for each and every one of those reviews, because they not only brought tears to my eyes (revenge is sweet, or so they say), but they are such a boost to my writerly confidence that they are worth more than any of you could possibly know. _Thank you_.  
**

**So here's second to last chapter, and it's dark, so if you find you are unwilling to put up with any more angst from me, then I truly don't blame you if you want to step away right now. It's one of my shortest chapters, and it was probably the most difficult to write for two very good reasons. One, the previous chapter was obviously the big climax to the plot, and I had been building the tension up throughout this entire story for the payoff that the previous chapter (hopefully) contained._ Anything_ after that was always going to be difficult to write. The second reason is far more simple, in that this chapter contains no actual dialogue, which in itself is a difficult way to write, but also quit limiting for me as I struggle with tenses and such, which introspective pieces invariably tend to contain. I personally think it's the weakest of the chapters so far, but I hope, nonetheless, that you enjoy it (as much as _anyone_ enjoys reading through the murky depths of someone's tortured mind).  
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**I should also note that I am not responsible for the emotional whump that Merlin goes through. I may be a _wee_ bit at fault for extending the whump somewhat, but it was BBC Shine - the actual _owners_ of Merlin - who whumped him so thoroughly to begin with. And I still haven't forgiven them for it...**

Merlin was in a complete state of shock; he knew this, and yet he was utterly powerless to do anything about it. The panic that had been building in his stomach for the past few days had twisted and turned in his guts, escaped their confinement, and then spread, until his entire body had been consumed by the force of it. He had nothing left with which to fight it.

And he'd tried, he'd _truly _tried fighting it; he'd pushed and prodded at it, holding it at bay even as he knew he couldn't contain it forever. He'd tried desperately to ignore the way it almost taunted him, slyly whispering that his destiny had been nothing but a lie all along, just a means to end that would forcibly manipulate the warlock into doing its bidding.

He'd fought against it while he watched, with increasing horror, the way his king had deteriorated before his eyes, becoming nothing more than a shadow of the strong and seemingly invincible warrior that he had always been. He'd buried his panic as deeply as he could when he had to listen to his friend's words, words that so clearly were eating away at the blonde's pitifully small reserves of strength.

He'd fought even more when he'd been forced to call a halt to their journey, channelling his frustration against the suffocating force of his panic, ruthlessly quelling it, and allowing the sight of Avalon – the very hope that was keeping his heart beating – to continue to fire his determination, letting it fuel the _one_ _thing_ that stopped him from curling into a ball and screaming with the unfairness of it all.

He'd fought it even as Morgana had intruded so cruelly on their journey, costing them time that they just didn't have.

But then, as powerful and all-consuming as that panic had been, it was suddenly replaced with something that settled over the warlock like a blanket of ice, cooling the flames of his panic, dousing the fire so completely that he had been frozen with it. Numbness had settled upon him; a strange serenity that had allowed him to do what he'd always shied away from, to do what he'd truly wished he'd never have to do. To end the life of someone who at one time – a _lifetime_ ago, it seemed – could have been so much more than the friend that Merlin had initially believed her to be. Morgana had been described as the hate to his love, the dark to his light, but somewhere, buried deep inside him – so deep that he hadn't really been aware of it until he'd plunged Excalibur so swiftly into the witch's stomach – there'd been a little bud of hope that maybe there was someone, apart from the brother of his heart, who could help him share the burden of his beautiful, yet terrible gift. Someone who he could be _himself_ with, and not have to hide his true character from.

He'd loved Freya with all the passion and whole-heartedness of youth, and would have devoted his entire life to her had she lived. She had pulled on his heart from the very first minute he had saw her, and he'd no more been able to resist that pull than he'd been able to stop the events that had stolen her away from him.

But Morgana had not only pulled on his heart, she'd also pulled on his magic. His powers had sensed something similar to them, almost a kinship, and it was perhaps this recognition that had stopped the warlock from killing the witch in the past.

But even as this understanding had flowed through him, as he'd listened to the sickening words of triumph that spilled from the witch's mouth as violently as poison seeps from an infected wound, he'd known that any feelings of love that this woman may have inspired in him had shrivelled and died long before they'd had chance to flower.

And once again he'd been stricken anew at the depths of his mistakes. Even as he'd driven the killing blow into the woman who could have been so much more to him, he'd almost revelled in his actions, despite the crippling remorse that had brought them to this. The warlock had always felt deeply the absence of any control over what destiny had thrust upon him, but the moment when he'd ended Morgana's life – the moment that had both _sickened_ him and _gladdened_ him – had restored a little of the faith that he'd so desperately needed. For at last he'd finally conquered his crippling indecision, and had wrenched a little of the control back that he'd so desperately needed.

But even the slight renewal of faith hadn't been strong enough to break through the cold haze of reality that had enveloped him. The numbness had continued as he'd ignored the way Arthur's breathing had worsened, and chose to blot out the fact that the only reason the king was still on his feet was because _Merlin_ was the one keeping him there.

The blanket of calmness had cushioned him against the knowledge that was hovering on the edge of his awareness, the inescapable fact that his friend was on the very edge of death, dancing the fine line between this world and the next.

But the bubble of denial had been burst swiftly and without mercy as the king had toppled over, burying the warlock beneath his weight, and panic had returned, even more powerful than it had been before, and once again it had been panic that had rendered him witless, panic that had made him waste those precious few minutes with his friend – his _brother_ – and miss the chance to say all that he'd wanted to say to his king. To admit to the deep affection that bound their souls so tightly together, more than mere destiny could ever hope to achieve.

When Arthur's eyes had closed, the warlock had lost control over _everything_; his thoughts, his emotions, his _body_... every particle of his being had been frantic, scattering blindly, with no earthly idea of how to come back together again. For a moment, he'd thought he'd died too, such was the extent of his unravelling.

And then sheer terror had forced words from his lips that he'd sworn he would never utter again; words that would summon his dragon-kin to his side, even if the journey would kill him.

It was so _wrong_, what he'd done. He'd known it, even as the words had been ripped from him. He should _never_ have been put into a position where he had to choose between the other half of his heritage and the other half of his soul. Both were so deeply a part of him that it was like losing an arm or a leg. And yet, when free will had been stripped away from him, and desperation had clawed at him like wild boar, he'd made a decision anyway.

He'd chosen his soul. _Of course he had_. And the strangest thing was that he knew that Kilgharrah understood, even as the warlock felt the heavy guilt of his choice.

And so his friend, mentor, and one and only tangible link to his father's noble heritage, had come to his aid, and had helped the warlock one last time.

Calmness had settled upon him once more as he'd held his brother gently in his arms and felt the steady thrum of his dragon kin's wings beside him, feeling, for the first time in memory, that somehow he was complete. _Honour, loyalty and magic_; the three things that ultimately were all that were needed to make Albion prosper into the golden age that had been foretold since the dawn of time.

Merlin had felt so peaceful during the dragon's flight that he'd almost missed the moment when his fingers had failed to register the faint beating of the king's heart. And even as he had gently searched for evidence that the blood was still pumping through Arthur's veins – however weakly – he hadn't really registered that it was over.

Avalon was a place of _magic,_ and magic could accomplish almost anything, after all.

And then Kilgharrah had uttered the words that had caused Merlin to stumble with shock, feeling as if his very skin was being ripped from his bones, and stripping away all that had been holding him together up until then. Even as the dragon had flown away, the warlock had been gripped with overwhelming disbelief, unable to comprehend that things had ended so _wrongly_.

It wasn't right. It _couldn't_ be right.

Once again destiny had whispered cruelly in his ears, telling him that Kilgharrah had spoken no more than the truth, but the warlock stubbornly refused to believe, and scrambled about for a way – _any_ way – to disprove his dragon kin's words, to make a lie of the body of the king, which was torturing him as it laid on the shores of the very lake that was supposed to have been his salvation.

And then it had hit him.

_The lake._

_Excalibur._

_Freya._

In Merlin's mind, the three thoughts had twisted and turned almost teasingly, and though he'd been confused, and unable to work out just where his thoughts were leading him, he'd somehow known that if he could just reunite the king's sword with the magic of the lake, then somehow it would bring Arthur back to him.

Because it _couldn't_ end like this. Arthur _couldn't_ die. It just didn't make any sense.

So he'd thrown Excalibur into the lake, hurling his deepest wish along with it, and had held his breath, _hoping_...

When the hand had appeared from the water's surface, catching the sword so firmly, the warlock's heart had thumped so painfully that he'd feared it would escape from his chest. All he could think was that yes – yes! – it was going to be fine after all, for surely the hand that gripped the hilt of Excalibur so familiarly could only be that of his friend.

But then slowly, _painfully_ slowly, the hand had begun its descent back into the depths of the lake, taking every last shred of hope that Merlin had been clinging to with it.

_It was over._

It was over, and once again the warlock was powerless to do anything about it. He was powerless against the cruelty of fate forcing him to abandon everything that had made him who he was, for without his purpose – without his _brother_ – who _was_ he anymore?

Even as he'd prepared the king's funeral boat, and sent him into the mists of Avalon's magical lake, shock and disbelief had been the primary emotions that guided him. Grief had been there – of course it had – but the warlock had ignored it, brushing it aside along with his tears, because surely – _surely_ – the grief, as real as it felt, couldn't _be_ real.

Because Arthur was _not_ dead. Arthur _wasn't_ on that boat. Arthur was here. Arthur was _still_ here. _He had to be_.

The warlock stood for hours on the shores of the lake, long after the boat had vanished from his sight. Hours in which shock finally released its hold on him bit by agonising bit. Hours in which feeling began to seep back into his weary bones, and words that he had been stubbornly refusing to listen to finally became absorbed.

And he was lost, _so lost_. He didn't know what to do. He was empty of all but the simplest of things; his heart continued to beat, and his wits were starting to return to him, but these were small, trifling things, because all that was running through his mind was one thought...

_He's gone._

The king was gone, and he was empty. He was empty, and he was numb. Part of him acknowledged that he was tired, cold, and on the very edge of collapse, but none of these facts could get past that single thought that was echoing through his mind over and over again.

_He's gone._

His friend was gone, and he had left Merlin behind. Left the warlock to pick up the pieces of a life that would never – _could_ never – be more than half-lived. For how could he fully live when half of his soul had left him?

_He's gone._

His brother was gone... and Merlin was alone.

As the crushing weight of the inescapable truth bore down on him, Merlin's legs collapsed from beneath him, and he landed with a dull splash in the water. As the icy liquid washed over him, he had a fleeting urge to let it carry him away, for there was nothing left for him now, and the Lake of Avalon was home to his beloved Freya, and now the resting place of the man who was entwined so closely with the warlock that it was a struggle to draw breath without him at his side.

But even as the pull of the lake called to him, he knew that it was an impossible dream, for the cruelty of fate had denied him all hope of the peace that death would give him.

For he was Emrys, and he was doomed to walk the earth forever.

_But maybe not forever alone..._

Merlin was suddenly shaken from his stupor by the voice of Kilgharrah, and it was so loud that for a moment the warlock thought that the dragon had returned to him once again.

_"Though no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny, some lives have been foretold. Merlin... Arthur is not just a King, he is the _Once and Future King_. Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again."_

The warlock slowly sat up, a feeling of determination starting to build deep in the pit of his stomach, and he crossed his legs and settled his palms atop his knees, gazing unwaveringly at the mystical waters of the lake before him.

_Arthur would rise again_, the dragon had said. He would rise again when Albion's need was greatest. All Merlin needed to do was wait, for surely it wouldn't be long. Albion was nothing without Camelot, and Camelot was _nothing_ without its King. They would need Arthur if they were to prosper, and so all Merlin needed to do was wait for destiny to realise its mistake and return to Albion the king that they needed _now_, not sometime in the future.

Merlin clung to this thought like the lifeline that it was, for it gave him something to focus on, something to blot out the grief that he knew hadn't even _begun_ to seep into his consciousness.

All he had to do was wait, and as the warlock gazed into the distance, that is exactly what he did.

He waited._  
_


	16. The Dragon's Last Flight

**Hello! I'm sorry for the slight delay, but I had some difficulty working out how I would approach the final chapter of this story. I'm quite pleased with the way it's turned out, and hope that you feel the same way! Again, I'll warn you that the tone is somewhat dark, but I firmly believe that Merlin would have struggled with his destiny, and the chapter needed to reflect this. I _also_ firmly believe that while its dark, it is not nearly as heartbreaking as the previous two chapters, so perhaps you won't need any tissues. Well, maybe one. *winks***

**I'd like to take the time to once again thank each and every one of you who has followed this story, and for the incredible reviews and support you have all given me in the last six weeks. I don't think any of you really appreciate just how much this has meant to me, and without all your wonderful words of encouragement, I'm not sure I could have finished this story. So _THANK YOU_. From the bottom of my heart. *hugs***

**I'm going to concentrate on finishing my series of Merlin drabbles in the next week or two, but I still have plenty of plot bunnies running through my head, and have several ideas for stories poking at me, so I'm sure you'll see something new from me soon!**

**Once again I thank you - you are all _wonderful_! - and now I'll leave you with the _slightly_ longer epilogue (over 8k words - eek!) than the one that I had originally intended...**

**I don't own Merlin. Or so I keep telling myself...**

* * *

"It's been a five _days_, Gaius. They should be back."

"We must have patience, my lady. Avalon is more than a mere stone's throw away, and the area still has Saxons scattered throughout."

"You don't think that...?"

"No, my lady, you must not trouble yourself with these thoughts. I told you; _Merlin can cope_. He will, however, wish to avoid any confrontation with the enemy. Avoiding trouble takes time, and I have no doubt that Arthur and Merlin are merely being cautious, and that this is the reason for their delay."

The old physician's words did little to settle Guinevere's mind. They'd had the same conversation several times in the days since Gaius had first informed the Queen of her husband's grave situation, and the more hours that had passed, the bigger the knot of anxiety had grown in the pit of her stomach.

And Gaius was worried, too. Oh, he was keeping a stoic face on things, and doing his utmost to keep the Queen's spirits up, but Guinevere was not fooled. Several new lines had become deeply etched on the old man's already wrinkled face, and his legendary disapproving eyebrows were permanently furrowed over his increasingly troubled eyes.

And the more the older man's eyes had clouded with worry, the more the Queen had fretted.

Guinevere twisted her fingers and resumed her pacing on the floor of the chambers that she'd shared with her husband for the last few years. The entire Kingdom was under a cloud of concern for their King, and though she knew she needed to be strong for her people, she'd removed herself to her rooms and had spent the past few days cloistered within their comforting cocoon, unable to face the concern and the questions from all who crossed her path. Sir Leon – Camelot's longest-serving, and most faithful knight – and Gaius were the only people permitted access to the Queen, the latter her almost constant companion in the last few days.

The Court Physician had talked at length during this time, initially, Guinevere was sure, to distract her from her anxiety, but soon she'd inevitably asked questions, and the older man had opened up further, explaining in great detail some of the deeds that Merlin had so successfully managed to hide from them all in the last ten years.

The Queen had been stunned, but at the same time, not altogether surprised. Merlin had astonished her many times over the years with his various brave actions, that the magic behind these deeds was not as much of a shock as it should have been. The only real surprise was the sheer amount of times that her friend had risked himself for the sake of his King, and for Camelot.

In truth, the Queen was not worried about Merlin's capability to cope with any of the stray Saxons still roaming the area; she'd seen for herself – at Camlann – the incredible amount of power that her friend had somehow managed to conceal ever since he'd set foot in Camelot all those years ago, and had stepped straight into trouble.

After all, Merlin had always managed to find a way out of any sticky situation that he found himself in, magical or otherwise.

No, Guinevere's fears had nothing to do with Merlin's ability to cope. They stemmed from the words that she was positive Gaius hadn't meant to say when she had first stepped back from the public's overwhelming curiosity and concern for their King.

For Gaius had admitted that Arthur had no more than a day or two before he succumbed to his injury, and even if she allowed for the maximum amount of time to pass from that grim prognosis, it still meant that three days were unaccounted for. Three days in which the Queen had twisted her fingers so much that the skin was rubbed raw, and three days in which she had wondered endlessly if Arthur was still breathing.

She had a terrible feeling that he wasn't. And a desperate hope that he was.

"They should be back by now," she said again, shooting the physician a quick look before tearing her gaze away.

Gaius was twisting his own fingers beneath the billowing sleeves of his worn robes, a fact that the Queen had noted along with the newly formed wrinkles on the physician's face. The old man didn't reply this time, and simply looked to the windows, as if they would somehow give him an answer to Guinevere's unspoken question.

The tense silence was broken by a soft knock, and the Queen shared a panicked look with Gaius before hurrying to the door and wrenching it open.

Sir Leon hurriedly entered, and seeing the intense concern on the knight's features, Guinevere felt the knot in her stomach grow even more.

"What is it, Sir Leon?"

"My lady," he began, clearly unsure of how to form the words that he'd come to say.

"Is it Arthur?"

"No, my lady. But... there have been several reports from our outposts reaching us in the last few hours."

"Reports? What do you mean? _What_ reports?"

"My lady, there have been sightings. Sightings of... of a _dragon_. A dragon making its way towards Camelot."

"A dragon?" repeated the Queen, suddenly transported back to the fiery scenes at Camlann, when a dragon had spread flames and destruction across the battlefield so terribly. "_Morgana_, do you think?"

"We're not sure, my lady. Descriptions of this dragon do not match with what we saw on the battlefield a few days ago. Reports suggest that this dragon is far larger than the beast from the battle. In fact, my lady, the descriptions seem to point to a dragon that we have long since thought to be gone."

The knight paused, allowing his words to sink in.

"It is troubling, my lady. A dragon itself is worrying enough, but we are concerned that there may be sorcery involved. The dragon heading our way matches the description of The Great Dragon that the King himself defeated years ago. We fear that Morgana may be conjuring these sightings to spread fear and panic throughout the kingdom in order to weaken us."

Guinevere looked to Gaius for help, for of course she knew that The Great Dragon had not been defeated all those years ago after all. The old man scrambled to his feet from his position at the King's desk, and hurried towards the Queen, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and extreme concern.

"Sir Leon," he said. "How far away is this dragon?"

"Perhaps an hour. Perhaps less," the knight replied, frowning.

"You must clear the courtyard immediately."

"We must... _what_?" the knight said, blinking stupidly at the old man, before looking to the Queen for guidance.

"Do as he says, Sir Leon," she said grimly. "And do it fast. Send word throughout the city that there is no cause for alarm."

"But, my lady... a _dragon_." The knight was clearly staggered.

"I am your _Queen_, Sir Leon, and this is a command. Do not think that I would endanger the lives of our people. This dragon is no threat to us. You have to trust me."

The knight straightened his posture and nodded, before bowing and leaving the room to carry out his Queen's orders. As soon as the door clicked softly shut, Guinevere faced the physician.

"Gaius?"

"I do not know what this means, my lady, but if Kilgharrah is coming to Camelot, then it must be important. We must continue to hope."

oo0oo

Word had spread throughout Camelot of the possible arrival of the beast that everyone had thought was dead, and though the people were more than a little afraid, curiosity got the better of a large number of them. There was quite the crowd gathered around the edge of the stone courtyard where Guinevere, Gaius, and a contingent of knights waited on the steps of the citadel.

"Did you not order them to remain in their homes, Sir Leon?" asked Gaius. "I am not sure that it is wise for there to be so many people in the area."

"I can't order them so stay in their homes," replied the knight. "Their concern for Arthur far outweighs any fear they might have for themselves. And they trust our Queen."

Guinevere pressed her hand on the knight's arm and squeezed it gratefully.

"Thank you, Sir Leon."

There was a tense silence after that, as everyone kept their gazes firmly fixed on the skies above them. Guinevere had to curb the urge to fidget, and ruthlessly linked her fingers together in order to keep them still. She had no wish to betray her anxiety to the people gathered in the courtyard, for they might interpret it as fear of the creature that she had gravely assured them was perfectly safe.

The minutes dragged by, and the skies remained empty of everything other than the ominous grey clouds that travelled over their heads as slowly as the seconds that passed them by; seconds that were almost mocking them with their refusal to move more swiftly.

Guinevere heard Gaius's sharp intake of breath the same time that she acknowledged the excited whispers that floated up from the crowds.

"_What's that?"_

"_Look!"_

"_It's getting closer!"_

"_Is that the dragon?"_

"_Dragon!"_

"My lady, Kilgharrah approaches."

Guinevere gripped her fingers together even _more_ tightly, and lifted her chin. At first, she could only see a shadow on the horizon, but soon that shadow became clearer as it got closer. _And closer_. Astonishingly, the Queen found herself hoping that it would stay only a shadow in the distance; that it would remain no more than a faint, unknown curiosity. For the speed that the shadow approached the citadel was suddenly far too fast, and Guinevere found herself wishing for the slowness of time that she'd only minutes before had been cursing.

Because she was not ready. She was not ready to know what she somehow already knew. She was not ready to deal with the consequences of that unacknowledged truth.

But just as time had refused to speed up only moments before, it was just as reluctant to slow back down again, and the shadow was now much _more_ than a shadow; it was the truly terrifying form of The Great Dragon, its bronzed scales clearly visible against the greyness of the sky that surrounded it.

The crowd, perhaps letting their fears come back to the front of their minds, hastily moved to the perimeters of the courtyard, and watched cautiously as the beast circled above them for a few moments, its gaze seeking out and finding that of the Queen.

"Lady Queen, I humbly ask permission to land."

Several gasps of shock echoed throughout the crowd, both at the gentle request, and at the obvious surprise of hearing the magical creature speak.

Guinevere nodded graciously, unable to find the breath with which to form a reply.

The dragon landed softly upon the cobbled stones of the courtyard, and settled its giant wings around itself before it bowing its head respectfully.

"I bring tidings that will both hearten and sadden you, Lady Queen."

A terrible hush descended over the crowd, and Guinevere felt the dread that was permeating the very air that she breathed. She straightened her posture into that of a statue, and nodded again, still unable to command her voice to work.

"The witch is dead, and no longer a threat to all that you hold dear."

The crowd found their voices and several cheers and joyous cries erupted, as the people expressed their relief at this greatest of news. It was a minute or two before they quietened again, perhaps remembering the dragon's earlier words, or perhaps struck dumb again by the sombre expression of the beast that had remained so perfectly still throughout the display of mass relief.

"This is wonderful news indeed, and we thank you for bringing it to us, Great Dragon," said Sir Leon, taking charge, as it was clear that the Queen was still unable to form any words. "But...what tidings of Arthur? Do you have news of our King?"

The crowd held their breath, along with the royal entourage gathered on the steps, as the dragon lowered its head.

"I am deeply sorry to inform you that the Once and Future King died these three days past. The Emrys did all that was in his power to save the King, but even _he_ is not powerful enough to beat the forces of fate."

The dragon paused, and then shifted its gaze to look Guinevere directly in the eye.

"You must be strong, Lady Queen, for now the future of Albion rests in _your_ hands. And they are more than capable of the task that awaits you. You will not be alone. There are those who you already have at your side..."

The dragon briefly rested its eyes upon the people gathered on the steps of the citadel, lingering as they passed by Sir Leon, and nodding slightly as they landed on the form of the Court Physician.

"And there is another who would help you; one who would be your strongest ally, if you are but willing to accept him. And one who needs your help right now, Lady Queen."

As the dragon finished speaking, he unfurled one of his great wings, and gently released the burden that he had hidden within one of his giant claws at the base of the citadel's steps. There were several surprised gasps from not only the crowd, but from the knights surrounding the Queen.

"_Who is that?"_

"_Isn't that the physician's boy?"_

"_That's Merlin!"_

"_Merlin!"_

"My boy," whispered Gaius, who quickly rushed to the unconscious form of his ward.

Guinevere struggled to push past the heavy blanket of grief that had surrounded her as soon as she'd heard the words confirming her husband's death, but she forced herself to move, and stumbled down the steps until she reached Gaius, before joining him on her knees.

"What is his injury?" asked the physician anxiously, who was currently feeling for a pulse with gentle fingers, while his other hand skimmed over the slight frame of the warlock, searching for the cause of Merlin's state of collapse.

"Do not fear, Gaius; you will find no wounds to bandage, nor bones to set. The Emrys is in no danger of dying... but he is broken of spirit," said the dragon, and it was clear that the beast was filled with grief at his own words.

"What happened?" whispered the Queen, absorbing the full impact of the state of her best friend. Merlin had always had an air of delicacy about him, but Guinevere had never seen the man look so fragile in all of the years they'd known each other. Quite apart from the state of his clothing – which was muddied and torn, and was damp to the touch – Merlin was greyer than the skies above, and the bruises under his eyes were akin to that of someone recovering from a tavern brawl.

"It is grief, Lady Queen; something that perhaps only _you_ will begin to understand. There is much that you do not know, and it is the warlock who must tell you, for I do not have the right to do so. But heed my words, Lady Queen; the Emrys would not thank me for bringing him home, for he had no wish to leave his King behind. I have been watching the warlock closely, and willing him to gather his strength, but after the third dawning of a new day, I could no longer continue to watch."

"You watched him for three _days_?" said Gaius angrily, his voice shaking with his wrath. "You are the boy's _kin_, and yet you did _nothing_?"

If anyone was surprised at the sight of Camelot's stoically calm physician angrily scold a beast that was capable of killing every single person in the courtyard with a simple breath of fire, nobody said anything. They were engrossed far too deeply in the events unfolding before them, and were perhaps shocked at the way the beast allowed a slow river of tears to trickle from its golden eyes.

"I am weakened with age, old friend. I am not long for this world, and I did not believe I would be able to make the journey from Avalon to Camelot. I was unwilling to take the risk, for as much as the boy needed help, he was at least safe on the shores of Avalon. If I failed in the task of bringing him to Camelot, I would have left him unprotected in forests that still have the scattered remnants of the witch's army prowling throughout them."

"And yet, you brought him anyway," said Guinevere, narrowing her eyes.

"I could no longer watch, Lady Queen. The warlock is perhaps stronger than any other person that I know of, but even _he_ has his limits. A body cannot sustain itself without nourishment, food, and rest. Nor can grief begin to heal without others to lean on. I could leave him no longer."

"My lady, we must get him inside," said Gaius anxiously, and the old man gestured to the knights to help him. "Quickly now, he needs to be warmed."

As several knights, led by Sir Leon, approached the prone form of the warlock, Guinevere rose to her feet and stepped to one side.

"I-I thank you for bringing Merlin home, Great Dragon. And for... for bringing us news of Morgana's demise."

The dragon bowed its head.

"I have but one question," she said, swallowing painfully. "Where is the King? Where does my husband lie?"

"The Once and Future King rests in the magical waters of Avalon, Lady Queen. Merlin saw to it that the King had a fitting journey from this world into the next."

Guinevere closed her eyes briefly, and nodded once more.

"There is a boon that I would ask of you, Lady Queen."

Guinevere found her gaze drawn to the retreating backs of the knights who were carrying her friend inside the citadel, and knew that while the dragon had brought her the news that would haunt her till the end of her days, he had also brought her friend _home_, and she owed the beast more than mere words of gratitude.

"Then you must ask me this favour," she said quietly. "And if it is within my power, I will grant it."

"I humbly ask to rest these weary bones upon the ground beneath me," said the dragon, bowing before the Queen. "And that you allow me to remain until my dragon-brother recovers. The sleep of the eternal awaits me, and I would go to my rest with my mind eased, if that is at all possible."

"Of course," she replied. "You may be assured of your welcome within the city, Great Dragon."

"Thank you, Lady Queen. You are as gracious and wise as I have always thought you."

Guinevere nodded, and summoned one of the knights that had remained in the courtyard.

"See to it that the dragon remains undisturbed, and that he is kept informed of Merlin's condition. And please, gather the knights, and inform the people that they must return to their homes. This is a time for mourning and respect, not a time to be gaping and whispering in the background."

"Yes, my lady," said the knight and, with a wary glance at the dragon, backed away, and beckoned the remaining knights together.

"I must leave you know," said Guinevere, returning her gaze to the dragon. "I would like to oversee Merlin's care, and... there is much that I have to think about."

"Of course, Lady Queen."

Guinevere nodded graciously, and gathered up her skirts so that she could climb the steps behind her. She did indeed have much to think about, and was aware that she had not fully absorbed the news of her husband's death yet. The knowledge was there, and it was prodding at her painfully, but she pushed it away, knowing that she needed to keep her wits about her in the coming days. For as much as she knew how heavy the burden of her grief would be in the days to come, the weight of responsibility that had been thrust upon her shoulders would surely be equal to it.

oo0oo

It was a full week before Merlin opened his eyes, a week in which Gaius patiently administered small amount of fluids and watered down broth into the unresisting mouth of his ward, and a further day still before Gaius could persuade him to speak, though the words that that were whispered so painfully seemed hardly worthy of the obvious struggle that they had caused the already weakened man.

"_He's gone."_

The day following Merlin's return to consciousness found Guinevere and Gaius seated at the bedside of the warlock, quietly conversing about the man who was continuing to concern them so deeply.

"His strength is returning slowly, my lady, but I am still extremely worried about the level of shock that is clearly hampering his recovery," said the troubled physician.

"Merlin has _always_ been devoted to Arthur, Gaius. I was even partly jealous of it at one time, for the bond they shared was so obviously deeper than I could ever hope to understand. I don't want to think about what he's been through..."

Guinevere allowed her eyes to rest on the sleeping form of her friend; there was a little more colour to his features, the greyness that had worried them all lifted from them. But despite the more normal pink tinges to his skin, the faint blush of returning health was not strong enough to hide the undeniable paleness of Merlin's face.

The Queen was struggling with her own grief, but she nevertheless could not help but empathize with her friend's pain, and want to help him. For while she knew that her own grief was staggering, she understood that in some ways Merlin's despair went deeper.

"Has he said anything else?" she asked.

"No," the Court Physician sighed. "Just those same two words. And I'm ashamed to say, my lady, that while I know that he needs to talk about what happened, I cannot bring myself to _ask_ him. I have never seen such empty eyes..."

Guinevere patted the old man's hand sympathetically, and returned her attention to Merlin, whose features, even as he slept, were marred by a frown.

"He needs time, Gaius. We all do."

"I am not sure that time will be enough," replied the physician. "Though time is something that Merlin sadly has plenty of. My poor boy."

"Yes," agreed the Queen. "Merlin is still so young. We're of an age, as you know, Gaius. We have long years ahead of us in which to live without Arthur. We will lean upon each other, I think, in the years to come."

The physician nodded at her words, but Guinevere could sense that she was missing something, for while the old man gave her a look of sympathy, the look he settled upon his ward was filled with a pity so deep that the Queen was faintly worried by it.

"Gaius? What is it?"

"That is something that I cannot tell you, my lady, for I do not know if my suspicions are correct. And even if they are, it is up to Merlin whether he wishes to share his secrets."

oo0oo

The second coronation of Queen Guinevere Pendragon of Camelot took place a fortnight after Merlin had been brought home so dramatically. The warlock was still cloistered within the Court Physician's rooms, slowly recovering his health under the gentle ministrations of his guardian, and so he wasn't present for the momentous occasion, much to Guinevere's sorrow. Her friend was still confined to his bed, and was either refusing, or unable to talk. But he was at least eating now, and his features were beginning to lose the unhealthy glaze of shock that had worried them all so thoroughly.

The Great Dragon had blessed the new Queen with a shower of harmless sparks, and, heartened by the news of the warlock's slow, but steady return to health, had departed the city on the evening of Guinevere's formal acceptance as Camelot's ruling sovereign. The Queen had tried to persuade the creature to stay, if only for the sake of her friend, but the dragon had gently refused, stating his wish to spare his kin from witnessing the death that he knew was only days, perhaps even hours, away.

"He watched his soul-brother die before him, Lady Queen. I cannot ask him to watch as his dragon-brother does the same."

"Do you have anything you wish me to say to him? I know he will be troubled by your leaving," said the Queen. "Gaius has explained the bond that you share with Merlin, and though I do not understand it, I can see how much you care for him. I can only assume that Merlin has the same care for you."

"The warlock knew my time was almost upon me, Lady Queen. I can sense his pain, but I know that he is strong enough to bear it. I ask only one thing."

"And that is?"

"Remind my Dragon Lord of his heritage. Have him seek out Aithusa."

"Aithusa?"

"He will know who you mean. It is Aithusa that he will need in the long years ahead."

Guinevere didn't know who Aithusa was, but it was clear that this request was important, for the dragon's eyes had looked deeply into hers as he'd spoken it.

"Aithusa," she repeated, making sure that she had the name clear in her mind. "I will inform him of your words."

"Take care of him, Guinevere. He is strong, yet vulnerable at the same time. He needs you as much as he will need Aithusa. Do not fail him."

The Queen was shocked at the dragon's use of her given name, but she immediately recognised that in doing so, the dragon was speaking to her as one friend to another. A friend who shared her concerns for the man who was still gripped within the icy fingers of grief.

"I will not fail him," she assured in a quiet voice. "I promise."

The dragon nodded, dipped his head in a final bow, and then turned swiftly away. Guinevere watched as the beast flew into the skies, feeling strangely saddened by the sight, but without knowing why.

oo0oo

The next few weeks were filled with endless council meetings for Guinevere, but she was thankful for how busy they kept her, for they allowed her to collapse into her bed at the end of each day, and be untroubled by dreams throughout the night.

The council meetings – which frequently lasted from noon until dusk – were mainly concerned with the new laws that she was introducing to the kingdom. Laws that allowed magic to be free once more; laws that would enable her friend some level of comfort in a world that he so clearly found bewildering to be a part of.

Not that Merlin had admitted to any such feelings, but while the Queen spent her afternoons locked in serious talks with her council members, she devoted each morning to her friend. Little by little, she had managed to gently coax the warlock into speaking more than those terrible two words he had initially repeated on those first few days after he had regained consciousness. It was a painfully slow process – both for Guinevere _and_ Merlin – but a process that had been necessary.

Guinevere now knew everything there was to know about her friend, including all that had happened during her husband's last few days of life. These last details had been the hardest to discover, not least because Merlin had refused to discuss them at first. But Guinevere had persisted, both because Merlin had so obviously needed to talk about it, but also because the Queen had needed to _hear_ it. She'd needed to know every last moment of her husband's final days, for without this knowledge she knew she would forever be tortured by images of blood and suffering.

Arthur had died peacefully in the arms of his friend, and Guinevere was comforted by this.

oo0oo

The weeks turned into months, and when the ban on magic was officially lifted, Merlin was well enough to be able to stand by his Queen, and even to smile when he was named as Camelot's first official Court Sorcerer in the new age. But the Queen was saddened to note that the smile was a lot dimmer than it used to be, and it did not reach the warlock's eyes.

She knew her friend well, and understood better than anyone what he was still suffering. And yet, she sensed that there was something _else_ troubling the man, some last secret that danced on the edges of her awareness, but refused to be pinned down.

"Aren't you happy, Merlin?" she whispered.

"I am happy, Gwen, truly I am."

The words was earnest, and perhaps even true, but Guinevere could not help but wish that her friend's glorious blue eyes would shine a little brighter, and that his smile was not just a stretching of the lips, but an expression that lit up the whole of his face.

It troubled the Queen to see her friend struggle so deeply with his grief. Guinevere still felt the loss of Arthur keenly, but her new responsibilities gave her something to focus on, and enabled her not to dwell on her loss.

Merlin had no such distraction; there was no King to protect any longer, and while he still felt it was his duty to protect Camelot and its new Queen, there was little that he had to protect them from. There had been no attacks since the battle at Camlann, magical or otherwise. The neighbouring kingdoms had been nothing but supportive of Guinevere, sending a steady stream of messages and gifts of condolences ever since news of Arthur's death had reached them.

Even now, there were representatives from the surrounding kingdoms residing in Camelot, members of the newly formed Council of Albion. The Golden Age that had been prophesized all those centuries ago was finally upon them, and Guinevere was determined to make it all as it should be, both in memory of her husband, and in honour of the man who remained so faithfully by her side.

oo0oo

Months became years, and it was only when the old physician finally gave up his stubborn hold on life that Guinevere noticed something. It had been ten years since she had lost her beloved husband, and while time had been kind to her, there was no denying the few strands of white that sprung up almost overnight on her head, or the fine lines that were etched a little deeper around her eyes.

But as she observed her dearest friend, who was gently shrouding his guardian in a pristine white sheet, and chanting softly under his breath, she was struck by how little he had changed over the years. He still looked hardly more than a boy, though his smiles had lost a lot of their earlier impishness.

Later that evening, when the Queen and Merlin were seated in Guinevere's chambers – a daily habit that had formed soon after she'd taken over the ruling of Camelot – Guinevere had gently asked her friend something that had always hovered on the edges of her mind, but had never quite managed to bring herself to mention out loud.

Kilgharrah had hinted at it of course, and even Gaius had said something that had caused the Queen to wonder. And there was Aithusa; when Merlin had recovered enough all those years ago, the Queen had kept her promise, and had urged her friend to seek out what she now knew was a dragon. Aithusa resided in The Valley of the Kings, and Merlin visited with her frequently.

"_It is Aithusa that he will need in the long years ahead_."

Kilgharrah's words suddenly became clear, for dragons lived for a thousand years or more. Aithusa would be a friend to Merlin long after Guinevere was taken from him.

"Will you _ever_ age, Merlin?" she asked gently.

Her friend searched her eyes for a moment, and his features softened.

"It doesn't seem that way, though sometimes I feel terribly old, Gwen. Far too old for this boyish body."

"Nonsense, Merlin," she chided. "You are not so very old. Why, we are the same age, are we not? If you start saying you are old, then you are saying _I_ am old. And I'm far too young to for that."

"You are as beautiful now as the day we first met, Gwen, and you know it," he said warmly, and raised her hand to kiss it briefly.

"Such courtly charm!" she exclaimed. "Really, Merlin, when did you learn such a gesture?"

Merlin just shrugged, and smiled softly. Guinevere beamed; her friend's smiles – his _true _smiles – were such a rarity that she treasured each and every one of them. She frequently found herself inspecting the smiles of her friend, which had, over the years, lost much of their brittleness. He would never return to the smiling man of his youth, but time had softened his grief, and his smiles, though rare, were as genuine as they ever were.

Though they never managed to fully reach his eyes. And never would, the Queen realised, until they looked upon the face of her husband.

Guinevere was aware of Merlin's stoic belief in Arthur's return; her friend's disclosures in the aftermath of Camlann had been both lengthy and complete. She'd never fully believed in the possibility of them being true, though. But faced with the undeniable truth of Merlin's long life as she now was, she was beginning to believe it after all. She only hoped that the wait would not be too long, though she suspected that it would be.

Kilgharrah had said that Merlin would need Aithusa, and dragons lived for many years; _thousands _of years.

It was unthinkable.

oo0oo

Guinevere Pendragon was old, so old that she didn't recognise the face that gazed back at her from her looking glass. Her hair was still thick, and hung in long waves down her back, but it was as white as the snow that was blanketing the ground beneath her.

"Is it far now, Merlin?" she said, glancing at the man who rode bedside her.

"Not far, Gwen. Just beyond those trees."

They were heading for Avalon, for the Queen was very near the end of her long life, and Merlin had assured her that she would be allowed the privilege of seeing the magical island that guarded its secrets so closely as she passed from one world into another.

"Do you truly think I will see him again, Merlin?"

"I believe it," he confirmed gently. "He'll be waiting for you."

Guinevere smiled ruefully.

"I'm not so sure he will recognise me," she said, feeling her face self-consciously.

"He'll recognise you, Gwen. I have no doubt of that."

Her friend gently halted his horse and dismounted, before coming to her side to help her do the same. The hand that reached for her own was still soft and smooth, and her friend's hair was still rumpled and thick, the light coating of snow doing little to disguise the darkness of it.

"He'd recognise _you_," she said. "Even after all these years, I am still surprised when I look at you. You really _do _never change."

Merlin smiled impishly as he kissed the hand that he still held.

"And _you_ never change, Gwen. Still as beautiful as ever."

They walked slowly to the lake, for the snow made it difficult for Guinevere's shaky legs, and she was not as nimble as she'd used to be. When they reached the shoreline, Merlin's eyes flashed with the beautiful gold that Guinevere had come to love over the years, and a boat began to float towards them. It was white, and layered with flowers of every colour imaginable, and Guinevere smiled at the beauty of it.

When the boat reached the edges of the water, Merlin gently helped the Queen into it, and covered her with the fur-trimmed cloak that he had brought with him.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, Merlin, I am warm."

"Good."

"Merlin?"

"Yes, Gwen?"

The Queen held her arms up, and Merlin gently clasped her hands.

"Thank you for staying with me. I know it's been hard for you."

"I would never have left you, Gwen. You're my friend."

The Queen smiled, and reached up to cup her friend's face.

"How will you bear it, Merlin? I have never been able to ask, but I find I cannot die unless you answer me."

Her friend smiled, and he reached out to brush away the tears that had suddenly formed in the Queen's eyes.

"I will bear it because I have to. I will bear it because there is nothing else that I can do. Most of all, I will bear it because it is _worth _it. It doesn't matter how many years I have to wait, it _will_ be worth it when Arthur rises again. You see, Gwen, I cannot possibly die when the other half of my soul is not with me. It simply cannot happen. I think maybe I am not doomed to live forever after all, just long enough to find the other half of myself. I believe that when Arthur rises again, my destiny will finally be fulfilled. Only then will my immortality leave me, and I have high hopes of silvery hair and gnarly hands in my future, no matter how distant that future might be."

"How long do you think it will be, Merlin?"

"I don't know. A decade... a century... a millennia... it makes little difference in the grand scheme of things. Just knowing that it _will_ happen gives me strength."

Guinevere shivered at the words, and couldn't help but repeat her earlier question.

"How will you _bear_ it?"

Merlin smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a hint of the mischief that she'd dearly missed over the years lighting up those incredibly blue orbs.

"I'm a patient man," he said impishly. "Serving Arthur taught me well."

Guinevere could not help but smile.

"There, _that's_ the Gwen I know," he said, tucking her hands beneath the warmth of the cloak.

The Queen closed her eyes, a smile still on her lips, and kept the image of her friend's affectionate gaze in her mind as she drifted into death as gently as the boat floated over the waters of Avalon.

oo0oo

Merlin did not return to Camelot after the death of his Queen, for Guinevere had been the only reason keeping him there. The kingdom had flourished under his friend's reign, and she had left Camelot well prepared for the future. He spent a day or two at Avalon, paying his respects to the woman who had been his faithful friend for so long, and allowing the peaceful waters of the lake to soothe him.

He'd felt Arthur's presence strongly as he'd released Guinevere into death's gentle embrace, and was comforted at the thought of his two dearest friends finding each other again.

The magic of Avalon was almost a physical thing, and was like a warm arm around the warlock's shoulders. It was tempting to never leave, to stay as close to the source of his hope until that hope had fulfilled all of its promise. But the warlock had begun to realise that lingering so close to his destiny would do little to help him in the years that stretched ahead of him. He promised himself, though, that he would return frequently, and renew the strength of his faith.

It had come as a surprise to him when he'd noted that he was almost a century old. Despite Guinevere's altered appearance at the end of her life, he'd always seen her as the young girl who had been his first friend in Camelot all those years ago. But she'd reminded him of his youthful features that were so different to her own; features that had almost made him forget how many years had already passed him by.

The warlock brooded on these thoughts for a while, even as he magically sent the horse that had brought his Queen to her final resting place back home, and summoned Aithusa to his side.

oo0oo

The warlock and his dragon travelled the world many times over during the next few centuries, keeping to the shadows, and giving aid whenever they were able to do so. Their bond was deep, and though Merlin had never been able to cure the white dragon of the ailments that had robbed her of her voice, they communicated well enough, and shared a connection that allowed them to speak through their thoughts.

They protected each other. Aithusa allowed Merlin to focus his instinctual need to protect on her, and the dragon would lift the warlock's spirits when they inevitably lowered from time to time. Merlin, in return, was always careful to keep his friend from the sight of all those that would harm her. They spent their days largely in their own company, content with each other's friendship, and feeling no need for any other companionship.

When the dawning of a new millennia arrived, they were both largely unaware of it, though Merlin noted that both he and his dragon had now passed five centuries of life together. It was then that the warlock began to take on the form of Old Emrys, for he was of the opinion that he was far too old to continue looking like a youthful boy any more.

The two companions continued their travels over the years, revisiting places many times over, and wondering anew over the many changes that the passing years had brought. Magic ceased to be the driving force behind all that existed, as the human race began to evolve, and introduced things that sometimes caused the two old friends to chuckle with amusement, or sometimes to shake their heads with sorrow.

For with every new wonder that was created to enrich the lives of the people of the world, there was something dark to counter it. With every invention that eased and enriched the quality of life for the majority of the world's population, there were also the inventions that threatened the very humanity of all.

By the time a second new millennia dawned, Aithusa was too old to travel so far any more. The white dragon had long since surpassed the thousand years or so that was the usual age of a dragon, but she had become increasingly frail over the years, and Merlin had been anxious not to tax her strength. He somehow knew that she clung to life simply because she refused to leave him alone, and the warlock was both saddened and deeply grateful for her sacrifice.

But eventually, even the determination and affections of the compassionate dragon wasn't enough to keep her heart beating, and Merlin took his friend to Avalon, and gently commanded her to release her hold on life.

The warlock chose to stay this time, as Avalon remained the only place that stirred at his magic. He made his home on the outskirts of a neighbouring village, and spent his days quietly reminiscing over his long life, and adding to the memoirs that Aithusa had encouraged him to write after she'd left him. Recalling all that had happened made him wistful, and sometimes he was tempted to stop, for there were memories that would inevitably cause him pain. But even as he considered ceasing to write down all that he had experienced, his dragon's final request would gently flow through his mind.

_Remember it all, my dragon-brother, for it is your memories that make you who you are, and it is your memories that will sustain you in the times ahead. I cannot stay with you, though I dearly wish that I could. But do not think of it as dying, for if you keep me in your thoughts, I will never truly be gone. Just as those who died so long ago have never truly left you. Be strong, my brother, for you will not be alone forever._

So Merlin faithfully kept his promise, and did as his friend asked, and as the time approached that marked the first year since Aithusa had breathed her last, he felt a stirring in the air; something that teased at his magical senses, but refused to make itself known to him.

He took daily walks to the village and back, following the road that circled the still mystical visage of Avalon, and absorbing the tangible magic that continued to increase in its teasing of the warlock's powers. He did not notice the strange looks that often came his way, long since used to the reactions of people who saw an old man walk with the strength and agility of someone in their twenties. And every time he became level with the beautiful column of magic of the island of Avalon, his would pause for a moment, and savour the taste of hope that had become so much stronger since he had lost his dragon.

Then the day came, shortly after he had commemorated the passing of Aithusa, when he sensed a far deeper pull on his magic, and he chose to forgo his usual daily walk, and instead found himself heading towards Avalon itself.

With every step that brought him closer to the source of that pull, the warlock felt the magic that was surrounding him thicken and intensify, and he found himself back in the form of his long ago youth, his hands once again smooth, and his face free of the beard that he'd had for so long, he'd forgotten what is was like to feel the wind on his cheeks.

Soon he was close enough for the column of Avalon to almost fill his entire vision, though it was not the familiar stone structure that held his attention, but the figure of the person that he'd dreamed for so long of seeing in the flesh again.

Arthur Pendragon, clad in the armour that he had died in, was standing tall and strong, and turning Excalibur over in his hands thoughtfully.

And Merlin smiled. He smiled so deeply that it filled not only his eyes, but his entire face – his entire _body_ – and he found himself thinking but one thought.

_He's back._

There were many things he could have said at that point – over the years Merlin had often thought of what he would say when he was finally reunited with the other half of his soul – but he found that he didn't really need to fill the moment with a steady stream of wondrous prattle, and so he simply opened his mouth and uttered one simple word.

"Arthur."

The word was whispered, but it reached the ears of the blonde, and the Once and Future King turned to look at the man who had spoken, his answering beam filling the warlock right to the depths of his being, and rendering him powerless to move.

Arthur's smile deepened as he strode purposefully towards his friend, stopping only when he was close enough to ruffle the warlock's hair in that gesture that was both almost forgotten, yet wonderfully familiar all at once.

"Ah, Merlin, just the man," said the king, in a voice that immediately both warmed and amused the warlock. "My sword needs polishing."

And Merlin found that he still didn't feel any need for words, for what use were words when he was laughing, and was walking side by side with the other half of himself once more? They had already said everything there was to say several lifetimes ago, and _no_ words were important enough to intrude on the magic of that moment...

That moment The Once and Future King finally returned to life, and allowed Merlin to feel whole once more.

_No, there were simply no words._

Well, except maybe a few...

"_Mer_lin! What on _earth_ are you wearing?"

_**Finite**_


End file.
